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PRESERVATION 
REPLACEMENT 
REVIEW  j£[i4g-; 


THE   NOVELS  OF 
IVAN    TURGENEV 

VOLUME  XI 


TV,       (oCU^y^J>J^ 


^b/^ 


THE    NOVELS    OF 
IVAN    TURGENE  V 

i.  Rtidin. 

ii.  A  House  of  Gentlefolk. 

iii.  On  the  Eve. 

iv.  Fathers  and  Children, 

V.  Smoke. 

vi.  &  vii.  Virgin  Soil.     2  Vols. 

viii.  &  ix.  A  Sportsman^ s  Sketches.     2  Vols. 

X.  Dream  Tales  and  Prose  Poons. 

xi.  The  Torrents  of  Spring. 

NEW  YORK 
MAC  MI  LEAN  AND  CO. 


A/3/ 
THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


•  Years  of  gladness, 
Days  of  joy, 
Like  the  torrents  of  spring 
They  hurried  away.' 

— From  an  Old  Ballad. 

.  .  .  At  two  o'clock  in  the  night  he  had  gone 
back  to  his  study.  He  had  dismissed  the 
servant  after  the  candles  were  lighted,  and 
throwing  himself  into  a  low  chair  by  the 
hearth,  he  hid  his  face  in  both  hands. 

Never  had  he  felt  such  weariness  of  body 
and  of  spirit.  He  had  passed  the  whole  even- 
ing in  the  company  of  charming  ladies  and 
cultivated  men  ;  some  of  the  ladies  were  beauti- 
ful, almost  all  the  men  were  distinguished  by 
intellect  or  talent ;  he  himself  had  talked  with 
great  success,  even  with  brilliance  .  .  .  and,  for 
all  that,  never  yet  had  the  taedhcm  vitae  of  which 
the  Romans  talked  of  old,  the  '  disgust  for  life,' 
taken  hold^  of  him,^\vith  such  irresistible,  such 
suffocating  force.     Had  he  been  a  little  younger. 


c^-i(i8G 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

he  would  have  cried  with  misery,  weariness,  and 
exasperation  :  a  biting,  burning  bitterness,  like 
the  bitter  of  wormwood,  filled  his  whole  soul. 
A  sort  of  clinging  repugnance,  a  weight  of 
loathing  closed  in  upon  him  on  all  sides  like  a 
dark  night  of  autumn  ;  and  he  did  not  know 
how  to  get  free  from  this  darkness,  this  bitter- 
ness. Sleep  it  was  useless  to  reckon  upon  ;  he 
knew  he  should  not  sleep. 

He  fell  to  thinking  .  .  .  slowly,  listlessly, 
wrathfully.  He  thought  of  the  vanity,  the  use- 
lessness,  the  vulgar  falsity  of  all  things  human. 
All  the  stages  of  man's  life  passed  in  order 
before  his  mental  gaze  (he  had  himself  lately 
reached  his  fifty-second  year),  and  not  one  found 
grace  in  his  eyes.  Everywhere  the  same  ever- 
lasting pouring  of  water  into  a  sieve,  the  ever- 
lasting beating  of  the  air,  everywhere  the  same 
self-deception — half  in  good  faith,  half  conscious 
— any  toy  to  amuse  the  child,  so  long  as  it  keeps 
him  from  crying.  And  then,  all  of  a  sudden, 
old  age  drops  down  like  snow  on  the  head,  and 
with  it  the  ever-growing,  ever-gnawing,  and 
devouring  dread  of  death  .  .  .  and  the  plunge 
into  the  abyss !  Lucky  indeed  if  life  works 
out  so  to  the  end  !  May  be,  before  the  end, 
like  rust  on  iron,  sufferings,  infirmities  come.  .  .  . 
He  di4-~Jiiit.piQtUie^-liie's-  sea,  as  the  poets 
r^  depict  it,  covered  with  tempestuous  waves  ;  no, 

2 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

he  thought  of  that  sea  as  a  smooth,  untroubled 
surface^- stagnant  and  transparent  to  its  darkest 
depths.  He  himself  sits  in  a  little  tottering 
boat,  and  down  below  in  those  dark  oozy 
depths,  like  prodigious  fishes,  he  can  just  make 
out  the  shapes  of  hideous  monsters  :  all  the  ills 
of  life,  diseases,  sorrows,  madness,  poverty, 
blindness.  .  .  .  He  gazes,  and  behold,  one  of 
these  monsters  separates  itself  off  from  the 
darkness,  rises  higher  and  higher,  stands  out 
more  and  more  distinct,  more  and  more  loath- 
somely distinct.  .  .  .  An  instant  yet,  and  the 
boat  that  bears  him  will  be  overturned  !  But 
behold,  it  grows  dim  again,  it  withdraws,  sinks 
down  to  the  bottom,  and  there  it  lies,  faintly 
stirring  in  the  slime.  .  .  .  But  the  fated  day 
will  come,  and  it  will  overturn  the  boat. 

He  shook  his  head,  jumped  up  from  his  low 
chair,  took  two  turns  up  and  down  the  room, 
sat  down  to  the  writing-table,  and  opening  one 
drawer  after  another,  began  to  rummage  among 
his  papers,  among  old  letters,  mostly  from 
women.  He  could  not  have  said  why  he  was 
doing  it ;  he  was  not  looking  for  anything — he 
simply  wanted  by  some  kind  of  external  occupa- 
tion to  get  away  from  the  thoughts  oppressing 
him.  Opening  several  letters  at  random  (in 
one  of  them  there  was  a  withered  flower  tied 
with  a  bit  of  faded  ribbon),  he  merely  shrugged 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

his  shoulders,  and  glancing  at  the  hearth,  he 
tossed  them  on  one  side,  probably  with  the 
idea  of  burning  all  this  useless  rubbish. 
Hurriedly,  thrusting  his  hands  first  into  one, 
and  then  into  another  drawer,  he  suddenly 
opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  slowly  bringing  out 
a  little  octagonal  box  of  old-fashioned  make, 
he  slowly  raised  its  lid.  In  the  box,  under  two 
layers  of  cotton  wool,  yellow  with  age,  was  a 
little  garnet  cross. 

For  a  few  instants  he  looked  in  perplexity 
at  this  cross — suddenly  he  gave  a  faint  cry. 
.  .  .  Something  between  regret  and  delight  was 
expressed  in  his  features.  Such  an  expression 
a  man's  face  wears  when  he  suddenly  meets 
some  one  whom  he  has  long  lost  sight  of,  whom 
he  has  at  one  time  tenderly  loved,  and  who 
suddenly  springs  up  before  his  eyes,  still  the 
same,  and  utterly  transformed  by  the  years. 

He  got  up,  and  going  back  to  the  hearth,  he 
sat  down  again  in  the  arm-chair,  and  again  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands.  .  .  .  '  Why  to-day  ?  just 
to-day  ? '  was  his  thought,  and  he  remembered 
many  things,  long  since  past. 

This  is  what  he  remembered.  .  .  . 

But  first  I  must  mention  his  name,  his 
father's  name  and  his  surname.  He  was 
called  Dimitri  Pavlovitch  Sanin. 

Here  follows  what  he  remembered. 
4 


I 

It  was  the  summer  of  1840.  Sanin  was  in  his 
twenty-second  year,  and  he  was  in  Frankfort 
on  his  way  home  from  Italy  to  Russia.  He 
was  a  man  of  small  property,  but  independent, 
almost  without  family  ties.  By  the  death  of  a 
distant  relative,  he  had  come  into  a  few  thousand 
roubles,  and  he  had  decided  to  spend  this  sum 
abroad  before  entering  the  service,  before  finally 
putting  on  the  government  yoke,  without  which 
he  could  not  obtain  a  secure  livelihood.  Sanin 
had  carried  out  this  intention,  and  had  fitted 
things  in  to  such  a  nicety  that  on  the  day  of 
his  arrival  in  Frankfort  he  had  only  just 
enough  money  left  to  take  him  back  to  Peters- 
burg. In  the  year  1840  there  were  few  railroads 
in  existence  ;  tourists  travelled  by  diligence. 
Sanin  had  taken  a  place  in  the  '  bci-ivago7i '  ; 
but  the  diligence  did  not  start  till  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  time  to  be  got  through  before  then.  For- 
tunately it  was  lovely  weather,  and  Sanin  after 
5 


/ 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

dining  at  a  hotel,  famous  in  those  days,  the 
White  Swan,  set  off  to  stroll  about  the  town. 
He  w.ent  in  to  look  at  Danneker's  Ariadne, 
which  he  did  not  much  care  for,  visited  the 
house  of  Goethe,  of  whose  works  he  had,  how- 
ever, only  read  Werter^  and  that  in  the  French 
translation.  He  walked  along  the  bank  of  the 
Maine,  and  was  bored  as  a  well-conducted 
tourist  should  be ;  at  last  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  tired,  and  with  dusty  boots,  he  found 
himself  in  one  of  the  least  remarkable  streets 
in  Frankfort.  That  street  he  was  fated  not 
to  forget  long,  long  after.  On  one  of  its 
few  houses  he  saw  a  signboard  :  *  Giovanni 
Roselli,  Italian  confectionery,'  was  announced 
upon  it.  Sanin  went  into  it  to  get  a  glass 
of  lemonade ;  but  in  the  shop,  where,  be- 
hind the  modest  counter,  on  the  shelves  of  a 
stained  cupboard,  recalling  a  chemist's  shop, 
stood  a  few  bottles  with  gold  labels,  and  as 
many  glass  jars  of  biscuits,  chocolate  cakes,  and 
sweetmeats — in  this  room,  there  was  not  a  soul ; 
only  a  grey  cat  blinked  and  purred,  sharpening 
its  claws  on  a  tall  wicker  chair  near  the  window 
and  a  bright  patch  of  colour  was  made  in  the 
evening  sunlight,  by  a  big  ball  of  red  wool 
lying  on  the  floor  beside  a  carved  wooden 
basket  turned  upside  down.  A  confused  noise 
was  audible  in  the  next  room.  Sanin  stood  a 
6 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

moment,  and  making  the  bell  on  the  door  ring 
its  loudest,  he  called,  raising  his  voice,  *  Is  there 
no  one  here  ?  '  At  that  instant  the  door  from  an 
inner  room  was  thrown  open,  and  Sanin  was 
struck  dumb  with  amazement. 


II 

A  YOUNG  girl  of  nineteen  ran  impetuously 
into  the  shop,  her  dark  curls  hanging  in  dis- 
order on  her  bare  shoulders,  her  bare  arms 
stretched  out  in  front  of  her.  Seeing  Sanin, 
she  rushed  up  to  him  at  once,  seized  him  by  the 
hand,  and  pulled  him  after  her,  saying  in  a 
breathless  voice,  '  Quick,  quick,  here,  save  him  ! ' 
Not  through  disinclination  to  obey,  but  simply 
from  excess  of  amazement,  Sanin  did  not  at 
once  follow  the  girl.  He  stood,  as  it  were, 
rooted  to  the  spot  ;  he  had  never  in  his  life 
seen  such  a  beautiful  creature.  She  turned 
towards  him,  and  with  such  despair  in  her 
voice,  in  her  eyes,  in  the  gesture  of  her  clenched 
hand,  which  was  lifted  with  a  spasmodic 
movement  to  her  pale  check,  she  articulated, 
*  Come,  come  ! '  that  he  at  once  darted  after  her 
to  the  open  door. 

In   the  room,  into  which  he  ran  behind   the 
7 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

girl,  on  an  old-fashioned  horse-hair  sofa,  lay  a 
boy  of  fourteen,  white  all  over — white,  with  a 
yellowish  tinge  like  wax  or  old  marble — he  was 
strikingly  like  the  girl,  obviously  her  brother. 
His  eyes  were  closed,  a  patch  of  shadow  fell 
from  his  thick  black  hair  on  a  forehead  like 
stone,  and  delicate,  motionless  eyebrows ;  be- 
tween the  blue  lips  could  be  seen  clenched 
teeth.  He  seemed  not  to  be  breathing ;  one 
arm  hung  down  to  the  floor,  the  other  he  had 
tossed  above  his  head.  The  boy  was  dressed, 
and  his  clothes  were  closely  buttoned  ;  a  tight 
cravat  was  twisted  round  his  neck. 

The  girl  rushed  up  to  him  with  a  wail  of 
distress.  '  He  is  dead,  he  is  dead  ! '  she  cried ; 
*  he  was  sitting  here  just  now,  talking  to  me — 
and  all  of  a  sudden  he  fell  down  and  became 
rigid.  .  .  .  My  God  !  can  nothing  be  done  to 
help  him  }  And  mamma  not  here  !  Pantaleone, 
Pantaleone,  the  doctor ! '  she  went  on  suddenly 
in  Italian.     '  Have  you  been  for  the  doctor?' 

*  Signora,  I  did  not  go,  I  sent  Luise,'  said  a 
hoarse  voice  at  the  door,  and  a  little  bandy- 
legged old  man  came  hobbling  into  the  room 
in  a  lavender  frock  coat  with  black  buttons,  a 
high  white  cravat,  short  nankeen  trousers,  and 
blue  worsted  stockings.  His  diminutive  little 
face  was  positively  lost  in  a  mass  of  iron-grey 
hair.  Standing  up  in  all  directions,  and  falling 
8 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

back  in  ragged  tufts,  it  gave  the  old  man's 
figure  a  resemblance  to  a  crested  hen — a  resem- 
blance the  more  striking,  that  under  the  dark- 
grey  mass  nothing  could  be  distinguished  but 
a  beak  nose  and  round  yellow  eyes. 

'  Luise  will  run  fast,  and  I  can't  run,'  the  old 
man  went  on  in  Italian,  dragging  his  flat  gouty 
feet,  shod  in  high  slippers  with  knots  of  ribbon. 
*  I  've  brought  some  water.' 

In  his  withered,  knotted  fingers,  he  clutched 
a  long  bottle  neck. 

*  But  meanwhile  Emil  will  die  ! '  cried  the 
girl,  and  holding  out  her  hand  to  Sanin,  '  O, 
sir,  O  vtein  Herr\  can't  you  do  something 
for  him  ? ' 

'  He  ought  to  be  bled — it 's  an  apoplectic  fit,' 
observed  the  old  man  addressed  as  Pantalcone. 

Though  Sanin  had  not  the  slightest  notion 
of  medicine,  he  knew  one  thing  for  certain,  that 
boys  of  fourteen  do  not  have  apoplectic  fits. 

'  It's  a  swoon,  not  a  fit,'  he  said,  turning  to 
Pantaleone.     '  Have  you  got  any  brushes  ? ' 

The  old  man  raised  his  little  face.     '  Eh  ? ' 

*  Brushes,  brushes,'  repeated  Sanin  in  German 
and  in  French.  '  Brushes,'  he  added,  making 
as  though  he  would  brush  his  clothes. 

The  little  old  man  understood  him  at  last. 
'  Ah,   brushes  !    Spazzette !    to   be   sure   we 
have ! ' 

9 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

*  Bring  them  here ;  we  will  take  off  his  coat 
and  try  rubbing  him.* 

*Good  .  .  .  Benonel  And  ought  we  not  to 
sprinkle  water  on  his  head  ? ' 

*  No  .  .  .  later  on ;  get  the  brushes  now  as 
quick  as  you  can.' 

Pantaleone  put  the  bottle  on  the  floor,  ran 
out  and  returned  at  once  with  two  brushes, 
one  a  hair-brush,  and  one  a  clothes-brush.  A 
curly  poodle  followed  him  in,  and  vigorously 
wagging  its  tail,  it  looked  up  inquisitively  at  the 
old  man,  the  girl,  and  even  Sanin,  as  though 
it  wanted  to  know  what  was  the  meaning  of 
all  this  fuss. 

Sanin  quickly  took  the  boy's  coat  off,  un- 
buttoned his  collar,  and  pushed  up  his  shirt- 
sleeves, and  arming  himself  with  a  brush,  he 
began  brushing  his  chest  and  arms  with  all 
his  might.  Pantaleone  as  zealously  brushed 
away  with  the  other — the  hair-brush — at  his 
boots  and  trousers.  The  girl  flung  herself  on 
her  knees  by  the  sofa,  and,  clutching  her  head 
in  both  hands,  fastened  her  eyes,  not  an  eye- 
lash quivering,  on  her  brother. 

Sanin  rubbed  on,  and  kept  stealing  glances 
at  her.  Mercy  !  what  a  beautiful  creature 
she  was  ! 


lO 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


III 


Her  nose  was  rather  large,  but  handsome, 
aquiline-shaped  ;  her  upper  lip  was  shaded  by 
a  light  down  ;  but  then  the  colour  of  her  face, 
smooth,  uniform,  like  ivory  or  very  pale  milky 
amber,  the  wavering  shimmer  of  her  hair,  like 
that  of  the  Judith  of  Allorio  in  the  Palazzo- 
Pitti ;  and  above  all,  her  eyes,  dark-grey,  with 
a  black  ring  round  the  pupils,  splendid,  trium- 
phant eyes,  even  now,  when  terror  and  distress 
dimmed  their  lustre.  .  .  .  Sanin  could  not  help 
recalling  the  marvellous  country  he  had  just 
come  from.  .  .  .  But  even  in  Italy  he  had  never 
met  anything  like  her !  The  girl  drew  slow, 
uneven  breaths  ;  she  seemed  between  each 
breath  to  be  waiting  to  see  whether  her  brother 
would  not  begin  to  breathe. 

Sanin  went  on  rubbing  him,  but  he  did  not 
only  watch  the  girl.  The  original  figure  of 
Pantaleone  drew  his  attention  too.  The 
old  man  was  quite  exhausted  and  panting ;  at 
every  movement  of  the  brush  he  hopped  up 
and  down  and  groaned  noisily,  while  his 
immense  tufts  of  hair,  soaked  with  perspira- 
tion, flapped  heavily  from  side  to  side,  like  the 
roots  of  some  strong  plant,  torn  up  by  the  water. 
II 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'You'd  better,  at  least,  take  off  his  boots/ 
Sanin  was  just  saying  to  him. 

The  poodle,  probably  excited  by  the  unusual- 
ness  of  all  the  proceedings,  suddenly  sank  on 
to  its  front  paws  and  began  barking. 

'Tartaglia—canaglia!'  the  old  man  hissed  at 
it.  But  at  that  instant  the  girl's  face  was  trans- 
formed. Her  eyebrows  rose,  her  eyes  grew 
wider,  and  shone  with  joy. 

Sanin  looked  round  ...  A  flush  had  over- 
spread the  lad's  face  ;  his  eyelids  stirred  .  .  . 
his  nostrils  twitched.  He  drew  in  a  breath 
through  his  still  clenched  teeth,  sighed.  .  .  . 

*  Emil ! '  cried  the  girl  ...  *  Emilio  mio  ! ' 

Slowly  the  big  black  eyes  opened.  They 
still  had  a  dazed  look,  but  already  smiled 
faintly ;  the  same  faint  smile  hovered  on  his 
pale  lips.  Then  he  moved  the  arm  that  hung 
down,  and  laid  it  on  his  chest. 

'Emilio!'  repeated  the  girl,  and  she  got  up. 
The  expression  on  her  face  was  so  tense  and 
vivid,  that  it  seemed  that  in  an  instant  either 
she  would  burst  into  tears  or  break  into 
laughter. 

'  Emil !  what  is  it  ?  Emil  ! '  was  heard  out- 
side, and  a  neatly-dressed  lady  with  silvery 
grey  hair  and  a  dark  face  came  with  rapid 
steps  into  the  room. 

A  middle-aged  man  followed  her ;  the  head 

12 


THE   TORRENTS   OF  SPRING 

of    a    maid-servant    was     visible    over    their 
shoulders. 

The  girl  ran  to  meet  them. 

*  He  is  saved,  mother,  he  is  alive  ! '  she  cried, 
impulsively  embracing  the  lady  who  had  just 
entered. 

*  But  what  is  it  ? '  she  repeated.  '  I  come 
back  .  .  .  and  all  of  a  sudden  I  meet  the 
doctor  and  Luise  .  .  .' 

The  girl  proceeded  to  explain  what  had 
happened,  while  the  doctor  went  up  to  the 
invalid  who  was  coming  more  and  more  to 
himself,  and  was  still  smiling :  he  seemed  to 
be  beginning  to  feel  shy  at  the  commotion 
he  had  caused. 

'  You  've  been  using  friction  with  brushes, 
I  see,'  said  the  doctor  to  Sanin  and  Pantaleone, 
'and  you  did  very  well.  ...  A  very  good 
idea  .  .  .  and  now  let  us  see  what  further 
measures  .  .  .' 

He  felt  the  youth's  pulse.  '  H'm  !  show  me 
your  tongue ! ' 

The  lady  bent  anxiously  over  him.  He 
smiled  still  more  ingenuously,  raised  his  eyes 
to  her,  and  blushed  a  little. 

It  struck  Sanin  that  he  was  no  longer  wanted ; 
he  went  into  the  shop.    But  before  he  had  time 
to  touch  the  handle  of  the  street-door,  the  girl 
was  once  more  before  him  ;  she  stopped  him. 
13 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  You  are  going,'  she  began,  looking  warmly 
into  his  face ;  '  I  will  not  keep  you,  but  you 
must  be  sure  to  come  to  see  us  this  evening : 
we  are  so  indebted  to  you — you,  perhaps,  saved 
my  brother's  life,  we  want  to  thank  you — 
mother  wants  to.  You  must  tell  us  who  you 
are,  you  must  rejoice  with  us  .  .  .' 

*  But  I  am  leaving  for  Berlin  to-day,'  Sanin 
faltered  out. 

*You  will  have  time  though,'  the  girl  re- 
joined eagerly.  '  Come  to  us  in  an  hour's  time 
to  drink  a  cup  of  chocolate  with  us.  You  pro- 
mise ?  I  must  go  back  to  him  !  You  will 
come  ? ' 

What  could  Sanin  do  ? 

*  I  will  come,'  he  replied. 

The  beautiful  girl  pressed  his  hand,  fluttered 
away,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  street. 


IV 


When  Sanin,  an  hour  and  a  half  later,  re- 
turned to  the  Roscllis'  shop  he  was  received 
there  like  one  of  the  family.  Emilio  was 
sitting  on  the  same  sofa,  on  which  he  had 
been  rubbed  ;  the  doctor  had  prescribed  him 
medicine  and   recommended  *  great  discretion 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

in  avoiding  strong  emotions'  as  being  a  subject 
of  nervous  temperament  with  a  tendency  to 
weakness  of  the  heart.  He  had  previously 
been  liable  to  fainting-fits  ;  but  never  had  he 
lost  consciousness  so  completely  and  for  so 
long.  However,  the  doctor  declared  that  all 
danger  was  over.  Emil,  as  was  only  suitable 
for  an  invalid,  was  dressed  in  a  comfortable 
dressing-gown;  his  mother  wound  a  blue  ^ 
woollen  wrap  round  his  neck  ;  but  he  had  a 
cheerful,  almost  a  festive  air ;  indeed  every- 
thing had  a  festive  air.  Before  the  sofa,  on 
a  round  table,  covered  with  a  clean  cloth, 
towered  a  huge  china  coffee-pot,  filled  with 
fragrant  chocolate,  and  encircled  by  cups,  de- 
canters of  liqueur,  bisciits  and  rolls,  and  even 
flowers  ;  six  slender  wax  candles  were  burning 
•^in  two  old-fashioned  silver  chandeliers  ;  on  one 
•;^ide  of  the  sofa,  a  comfortable  lounge-chair 
-.'offered  its  soft  embraces,  and  in  this  chair  they 
made  Sanin  sit.  All  the  inhabitants  of  the 
confectioner's  shop,  with  whom  he  had  made 
acquaintance  that  day,  were  present,  not  ex- 
cluding the  poodle,  Tartaglia,  and  the  cat ; 
they  all  seemed  happy  beyond  expression ; 
the  poodle  positively  sneezed  with  delight, 
only  the  cat  was  coy  and  blinked  sleepily  as 
before.  They  made  Sanin  tell  them  who  he 
was,  where  he  came  from,  and  what  was  his 
15 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

name  ;  when  he  said  he  was  a  Russian,  both 
the  ladies  were  a  little  surprised,  uttered  ejacu- 
lations of  wonder,  and  declared  with  one  voice 
that  he  spoke  German  splendidly ;  but  if  he 
preferred  to  speak  French,  he  might  make 
use  of  that  language,  as  they  both  understood 
it  and  spoke  it  well.  Sanin  at  once  availed 
himself  of  this  suggestion.  '  Sanin  !  Sanin  ! ' 
The  ladies  would  never  have  expected  that 
a  Russian  surname  could  be  so  easy  to  pro- 
nounce. His  Christian  name — '  Dimitri ' — they 
liked  very  much  too.  The  elder  lady  observed 
that  in  her  youth  she  had  heard  a  fine  opera — 
*  Demetrio  e  Polibio ' — but  that  '  Dimitri '  was 
much  nicer  than  '  Demetrio.'  In  this  way  Sanin 
talked  for  about  an  hour.  The  ladies  on  their 
side  initiated  him  into  all  the  details  of  their 
own  life.  The  talking  was  mostly  done  by  the 
mother,  the  lady  with  grey  hair.  Sanin  learnt 
from  her  that  her  name  was  Leonora  Roselli  ; 
that  she  had  lost  her  husband,  Giovanni  Bat- 
tista  Roselli,  who  had  settled  in  Frankfort  as 
a  confectioner  twenty -five  years  ago  ;  that 
Giovanni  Battista  had  come  from  Vicenza  and 
had  been  a  most  excellent,  though  fiery  and 
irascible  man,  and  a  republican  withal  !  At 
those  words  Signora  Roselli  pointed  to  his 
portrait,  painted  in  oil-colours,  and  hanging 
over  the  sofa.  It  must  be  presumed  that  the 
i6 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

painter,  *  also  a  republican  ! '  as  Signora  Roselli 
observed  with  a  sigh,  had  not  fully  succeeded 
in  catching  a  likeness,  for  in  his  portrait  the 
late  Giovanni  Battista  appeared  as  a  morose 
and  gloomy  brigand,  after  the  style  of  Rinaldo 
Rinaldini  !  Signora  Roselli  herself  had  come 
from  '  the  ancient  and  splendid  city  of  Parma 
where  there  is  the  wonderful  cupola,  painted 
by  the  immortal  Correggio  ! '  But  from  her  long 
residence  in  Germany  she  had  become  almost 
completely  Germanised.  Then  she  added, 
mournfully  shaking  her  head,  that  all  she  had 
left  was  tJiis  daughter  and  tJiis  son  (pointing  to 
each  in  turn  with  her  finger) ;  that  the  daughter's 
name  was  Gemmaj^^pd  the  son's  Enailio ;  that 
they  were  both  very  good  and  obedient  children 
— especially  Emilio  •  .  •  C  ^^^  "ot  obedient ! ' 
her  daughter  put  in  at  that  point.  '  Oh, 
you  're  a  republican,  too  ! '  answered  her 
mother).  That  the  business,  of  course,  was 
not  what  it  had  been  in  the  days  of  her 
husband,  who  had  a  great  gift  for  the  con- 
fectionery line  .  .  .  Q  U?i  grand  uo7no  I '  Panta- 
leone  confirmed  with  a  severe  air) ;  but  that 
still,  thank  God,  they  managed  to  get  along ! 


17 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


Gemma  listened  to  her  mother,  and  at  one 
minute  laughed,  then  sighed,  then  patted  her 
on  the  shoulder,  and  shook  her  finger  at  her, 
and  then  looked  at  Sanin  ;  at  last,  she  got  up, 
embraced  her  mother  and  kissed  her  in  the 
hollow  of  her  neck,  which  made  the  latter 
laugh  extremely  and  shriek  a  little.  Pantaleone 
too  was  presented  to  Sanin.  It  appeared  he 
had  once  been  an  opera  singer,  a  baritone,  but 
had  long  ago  given  up  the  theatre,  and  occupied 
in  the  Roselli  family  a  position  between  that 
of  a  family  friend  and  a  servant.  In  spite  of 
his  prolonged  residence  in  Germany,  he  had 
learnt  very  little  German,  and  only  knew  how 
to  swear  in  it,  mercilessly  distorting  even  the 
terms  of  abuse.  '  Ferroflucto  spitcJiebubbio '  was 
his  favourite  epithet  for  almost  every  German. 
He  spoke  Italian  with  a  perfect  accent — for 
was  he  not  by  birth  from  Sinigali,  where  may 
be  heard  '  lingiia  toscana  in  bocca  romana ' ! 
Emilio,  obviously,  played  the  invalid  and 
indulged  himself  in  the  pleasant  sensations  of 
one  who  has  only  just  escaped  a  danger  or  is 
returning  to  health  after  illness  ;  it  was  evident, 
too,  that  the  family  spoiled  him.  He  thanked 
Sanin  bashfully,  but  devoted  himself  chiefly 
i8 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

to  the  biscuits  and  sweetmeats.  Sanin  was 
compelled  to  drink  two  large  cups  of  excellent 
chocolate,  and  to  eat  a  considerable  number  of 
biscuits ;  no  sooner  had  he  swallowed  one  than 
Gemma  offered  him  another — and  to  refuse  was 
impossible !  He  soon  felt  at  home :  the  time 
flew  by  with  incredible  swiftness.  He  had  to 
tell  them  a  great  deal — about  Russia  in  general, 
the  Russian  climate,  Russian  society,  the  Rus- 
sian peasant — and  especially  about  the  Cos- 
sacks ;  about  the  war  of  1812,  about  Peter  the 
Great,  about  the  Kremlin,  and  the  Russian 
songs  and  bells.  Both  ladies  had  a  very  faint 
conception  of  our  vast  and  remote  fatherland  ; 
Signora  Roselli,  or  as  she  was  more  often 
called,  Frau  Lenore,  positively  dumfoundered 
Sanin  with  the  question,  whether  there  was 
still  existing  at  Petersburg  the  celebrated  house 
of  ice,  built  last  century,  about  which  she  had 
lately  read  a  very  curious  article  in  one  of  her 
husband's  books,  'Bellezze  delle  arti.'  And  in 
reply  to  Sanin's  exclamation,  *  Do  you  really 
suppose  that  there  is  never  any  summer  in 
Russia?'  Frau  Lenore  replied  that  till  then  she 
had  always  pictured  Russia  like  this — eternal 
snow,  every  one  going  about  in  furs,  and  all 
military  men,  but  the  greatest  hospitality,  and 
all  the  peasants  very  submissive  !  Sanin  tried 
to  impart  to  her  and  her  daughter  some  more 
19 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

exact  information.  When  the  conversation 
touched  on  Russian  music,  they  begged  him  at 
once  to  sing  some  Russian  air  and  showed  him 
a  diminutive  piano  with  black  keys  instead  of 
white  and  white  instead  of  black.  He  obeyed 
without  making  much  ado  and  accompanying 
himself  with  two  fingers  of  the  right  hand  and 
three  of  the  left  (the  first,  second,  and  little 
finger)  he  sang  in  a  thin  nasal  tenor,  first  '  The 
Sarafan,'  then  *  Along  a  Paved  Street.'  The 
ladies  praised  his  voice  and  the  music,  but  were 
more  struck  with  the  softness  and  sonorousness 
of  the  Russian  language  and  asked  for  a  trans- 
lation of  the  text.  Sanin  complied  with  their 
wishes — but  as  the  words  of  '  The  Sarafan,' 
and  still  more  of  *  Along  a  Paved  Street '  {sur 
une  rue  pavee  U7te  jeune  fille  allait  a  Feau  was 
how  he  rendered  the  sense  of  the  original)  were 
not  calculated  to  inspire  his  listeners  with  an 
exalted  idea  of  Russian  poetry,  he  first  recited, 
then  translated,  and  then  sang  Pushkin's,  '  I 
remember  a  marvellous  moment,'  set  to  music 
by  Glinka,  whose  minor  bars  he  did  not  render 
quite  faithfully.  Then  the  ladies  went  into 
ecstasies.  Frau  Lenore  positively  discovered  in 
Russian  a  wonderful  likeness  to  the  Italian. 
Even  the  names  Pushkin  (she  pronounced  it 
Pussekin)  and  Glinka  sounded-  somewhat 
familiar  to  her.  Sanin  on  his  side  begged  the 
20 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

ladies  to  sing  something  ;  they  too  did  not 
wait  to  be  pressed.  Frau  Lenore  sat  down  to 
the  piano  and  sang  with  Gemma  some  duets 
and  'stornellc'  The  mother  had  once  had  a 
fine  contralto  ;  the  daughter's  voice  was  not 
strong,  but  was  pleasing. 


VI 


But  it  was  not  Gemma's  voice — it  was  herself 
Sanin  was  admiring.  He  was  sitting  a  little 
behind  and  on  one  side  of  her,  and  kept 
thinking  to  himself  that  no  palm-tree,  even  in 
the  poems  of  Benediktov — the  poet  in  fashion  in 
those  days — could  rival  the  slender  grace  of  her 
figure.  When,  at  the  most  emotional  passages, 
she  raised  her  eyes  upwards — it  seemed  to  him 
no  heaven  could  fail  to  open  at  such  a  look ! 
Even  the  old  man,  Pantaleone,  who  with  his 
shoulder  propped  against  the  doorpost,  and  his 
chin  and  mouth  tucked  into  his  capacious 
cravat,  was  listening  solemnly  with  the  air  of  a 
connoisseur — even  he  was  admiring  the  girl's 
lovely  face  and  marvelling  at  it,  though  one 
would  have  thought  he  must  have  been  used  to 
it !  When  she  had  finished  the  duet  with  her 
daughter,   Frau   Lenore   observed  that   Emilio 

21 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

had  a  fine  voice,  like  a  silver  bell,  but  that 
now  he  was  at  the  age  when  the  voice  changes 
— he  did,  in  fact,  talk  in  a  sort  of  bass  con- 
stantly falling  into  falsetto — and  that  he  was 
therefore  forbidden  to  sing  ;  but  that  Pantaleone 
now  really  might  try  his  skill  of  old  days  in 
honour  of  their  guest !  Pantaleone  promptly 
put  on  a  displeased  air,  frowned,  ruffled  up  his 
hair,  and  declared  that  he  had  given  it  all  up 
long  ago,  though  he  could  certainly  in  his 
youth  hold  his  own,  and  indeed  had  belonged 
to  that  great  period,  when  there  were  real 
classical  singers,  not  to  be  compared  to  the 
squeaking  performers  of  to-day !  and  a  real 
school  of  singing  ;that  he,  Pantaleone  Cippatola 
of  Varese,  had  once  been  brought  a  laurel 
wreath  from  Modena,  and  that  on  that  occa- 
sion some  white  doves  had  positively  been  let 
fly  in  the  theatre  ;  that  among  others  a  Russian 
prince  Tarbusky — *  il  principc  Tarbusski' — 
with  whom  he  had  been  on  the  most  friendly 
terms,  had  after  supper  persistently  invited  him 
to  Russia,  promising  him  mountains  of  gold, 
mountains !  .  .  .  but  that  he  had  been  unwilling 
to  leave  Italy,  the  land  of  Dante — il  pacsc  del 
Dante  I  Afterward,  to  be  sure,  there  came  .  .  . 
unfortunate  circumstances,  he  had  himself  been 
imprudent.  ...  At  this  point  the  old  man  broke 
off,  sighed  deeply  twice,  looked  dejected,  and 

22 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

began  again  talking  of  the  classical  period  of 
singing,  of  the  celebrated  tenor  Garcia,  for 
whom  he  cherished  a  devout,  unbounded  venera- 
tion. '  He  was  a  man  ! '  he  exclaimed.  '  Never 
had  the  great  Garcia  (il  gran  Garcia)  de- 
meaned himself  by  singing  falsetto  like  the 
paltry  tenors  of  to-day — tenoracci\  always 
from  the  chest,  from  the  chest,  voce  di  pettOy 
si!^  and  the  old  man  aimed  a  vigorous  blow 
with  his  little  shrivelled  fist  at  his  own  shirt- 
front  !  '  And  what  an  actor !  A  volcano, 
signori  iniei^  a  volcano,  un  Vesuvzo !  I  had 
the  honour  and  the  happiness  of  singing  with 
him  in  the  opera  delV  illustrissimo  maestro 
Rossini — in  Otello  !  Garcia  was  Otello, — I  was 
I  ago — and  when  he  rendered  the  phrase  '  : — 
here  Pantaleone  threw  himself  into  an  atti- 
tude and  began  singing  in  a  hoarse  and  shaky, 
but  still  moving  voice  : 

"  L  'i  .  .  .  ra  daver  ...  so  daver  .  .  .  so  il  fate 
lo  piu  no  ...  no  ...  no  ..  .  non  temero  I " 

The  theatre  was  all  a-quiver,  sigjiori  mici\ 
though  I  too  did  not  fall  short,  I  too  after  him. 

"  L  'i  ra  daver  ...  so  daver  .  .  .  so  il  fato 
Temer  piu  non  davro  !  " 

And  all  of  a  sudden,  he  crashed  like  lightning, 

like    a   tiger  :    Morro !  .  .  .  via    veiidicato  .  .  . 

23 


THE  TORRENTS   OF  SPRING 

Again  when  he  was  singing  .  .  .  when  he  was 
singing  that  celebrated  air  from  "  Matrmionio 
segrefo"  Pria  che  spunti  .  .  .  then  he,  //  gran 
Garcia^  after  the  words,  "I  cavalli  di galoppo'' — 
at  the  words, " Senza posa cacciera" — h'sten, how 
stupendous,  come  e  stupendo  I  At  that  point 
he  made  .  .  .'  The  old  man  began  a  sort  of 
extraordinary  flourish,  and  at  the  tenth  note 
broke  down,  cleared  his  throat,  and  with  a  wave 
of  his  arm  turned  away,  muttering,  'Why  do 
you  torment  me  ? '  Gemma  jumped  up  at 
once  and  clapping  loudly  and  shouting,  bravo  ! 
.  .  .  bravo !  .  .  .  she  ran  to  the  poor  old  super- 
annuated lago  and  with  both  hands  patted  him 
affectionately  on  the  shoulders.  Only  Emil 
laughed  ruthlessly.  Get  age  est  sans  pitie — 
that  age  knows  no  mercy — Lafontaine  has  said 
already. 

Sanin  tried  to  soothe  the  aged  singer  and 
began  talking  to  him  in  Italian  —  (he  had 
picked  up  a  smattering  during  his  last  tour 
there) — began  talking  of  ^ paesc  del  Dajite^ 
dove  il  si  stiona.'  This  phrase,  together  with 
*  Lasciate  ogni  speranza^  made  up  the  whole 
stock  of  poetic  Italian  of  the  young  tourist  ; 
but  Pantaleone  was  not  won  over  by  his 
blandishments.  Tucking  his  chin  deeper  than 
ever  into  his  cravat  and  sullenly  rolling  his 
eyes,  he  was  once  more  like  a  bird,  an  angry 
24 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

one  too, — a  crow  or  a  kite.  Then  Emil,  with  a 
faint  momentary  blush,  such  as  one  so  often 
sees  in  spoilt  children,  addressing  his  sister, 
said  if  she  wanted  to  entertain  their  guest,  she 
could  do  nothing  better  than  read  him  one  of 
those  little  comedies  of  Malz,  that  she  read  so 
nicely.  Gemma  laughed,  slapped  her  brother 
on  the  arm,  exclaimed  that  he  'always  had 
such  ideas  ! '  She  went  promptly,  however,  to 
her  room,  and  returning  thence  with  a  small 
book  in  her  hand,  seated  herself  at  the  table 
before  the  lamp,  looked  round,  lifted  one  finger 
as  much  as  to  say,  *  hush  ! ' — a  typically  Italian 
gesture — and  began  reading. 


VII 


Malz  was  a  writer  flourishing  at  Frankfort 
about  1830,  whose  short  comedies,  written  in  a 
light  vein  in  the  local  dialect,  hit  off  local 
Frankfort  types  with  bright  and  amusing, 
though  not  deep,  humour.  It  turned  out  that 
Gemma  really  did  read  excellently — quite  like 
an  actress  in  fact.  She  indicated  each  person- 
age, and  sustained  the  character  capitally, 
making  full  use  of  the  talent  of  mimicry  she 
had  inherited  with  her  Italian  blood  ;  she  had 
25 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

no  mercy  on  her  soft  voice  or  her  lovely  face, 
and  when  she  had  to  represent  some  old  crone 
in  her  dotage,  or  a  stupid  burgomaster,  she 
made  the  drollest  grimaces,  screwing  up  her 
eyes,  wrinkling  up  her  nose,  lisping,  squeaking. 
.  .  .  She  did  not  herself  laugh  during  the  read- 
ing ;  but  when  her  audience  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  Pantaleone :  he  had  walked  off  in 
indignation  so  soon  as  the  conversation  turned 
0  quel  ferroflucto  Tedesco)  interrupted  her  by 
an  outburst  of  unanimous  laughter,  she  dropped 
the  book  on  her  knee,  and  laughed  musically 
too,  her  head  thrown  back,  and  her  black  hair 
dancing  in  little  ringlets  on  her  neck  and  her 
shaking  shoulders.  When  the  laughter  ceased, 
she  picked  up  the  book  at  once,  and  again 
resuming  a  suitable  expression,  began  the  read- 
ing seriously.  Sanin  could  not  get  over  his 
admiration  ;  he  was  particularly  astonished  at 
the  marvellous  way  in  which  a  face  so  ideally 
beautiful  assumed  suddenly  a  comic,  sometimes 
almost  a  vulgar  expression.  Gemma  was  less 
successful  in  the  parts  of  young  girls — of  so- 
called  '■  jeunes  premieres ' ;  in  the  love-scenes 
in  particular  she  failed  ;  she  was  conscious  of 
this  herself,  and  for  that  reason  gave  them  a 
faint  shade  of  irony  as  though  she  did  not 
quite  believe  in  all  these  rapturous  vows  and 
elevated  sentiments,  of  which  the  author,  how- 
26 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

ever,  was  himself  rather  sparing — so  far  as  he 
could  be. 

Sanin  did  not  notice  how  the  evening  was 
flying  by,  and  only  recollected  the  journey 
before  him  when  the  clock  struck  ten.  He 
leaped  up  from  his  seat  as  though  he  had  been 
stung. 

*What  is  the  matter?'  inquired  Frau  Lenore. 

*  Why,  I  had  to  start  for  Berlin  to-night,  and 
I  have  taken  a  place  in  the  diligence  ! ' 

*  And  when  does  the  diligence  start  ? ' 

*  At  half-past  ten  ! ' 

*  Well,  then,  you  won't  catch  it  now,'  observed 
Gemma  ;  '  you  must  stay  .  .  .  and  I  will  go 
on  reading.' 

'  Have  you  paid  the  whole  fare  or  only  given 
a  deposit  ?  '  Frau  Lenore  queried. 

*  The  whole  fare  ! '  Sanin  said  dolefully  with 
a  gloomy  face. 

Gemma  looked  at  him,  half  closed  her  eyes, 
and  laughed,  while  her  mother  scolded  her  : 
'  The  young  gentleman  has  paid  away  his 
money  for  nothing,  and  you  laugh  ! ' 

*  Never  mind,'  answered  Gemma  ;  '  it  won't 
ruin  him,  and  we  will  try  and  amuse  him. 
Will  you  have  some  lemonade?' 

Sanin  drank  a  glass  of  lemonade.  Gemma 
took  up  Malz  once  more  ;  and  all  went  merrily 
again. 

27 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

The  clock  struck  twelve.  Sanin  rose  to  take 
leave. 

*  You  must  stay  some  days  now  in  Frank- 
fort/ said  Gemma :  '  why  should  you  hurry 
away  ?  It  would  be  no  nicer  in  any  other  town.' 
She  paused.  '  It  wouldn't,  really,'  she  added 
with  a  smile.  Sanin  made  no  reply,  and  re- 
flected that  considering  the  emptiness  of  his 
purse,  he  would  have  no  choice  about  remaining 
in  Frankfort  till  he  got  an  answer  from  a 
friend  in  Berlin,  to  whom  he  proposed  writing 
for  money. 

*  Yes,  do  stay,'  urged  Frau  Lenore  too.  '  We 
will  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Karl  Kliiber,  who  is 
engaged  to  Gemma.  He  could  not  come  to- 
day, as  he  was  very  busy  at  his  shop  .  .  .  you 
must  have  seen  the  biggest  draper's  and  silk 
mercer's  shop  in  the  Zeile.  Well,  he  is  the 
manager  there.  But  he  will  be  delighted  to 
call  on  you  himself 

Sanin — heaven  knows  why — was  slightly  dis- 
concerted by  this  piece  of  information.  '  He  's 
a  lucky  fellow,  that  fiance: ! '  flashed  across  his 
mind.  He  looked  at  Gemma,  and  fancied  he 
detected  an  ironical  look  in  her  eyes.  He 
began  saying  good-bye. 

'Till  to-morrow?  Till  to-morrow,  isn't  it?' 
queried  Frau  Lenore. 

*  Till  to-morrow  ! '  Gemma  declared  in  a  tone 

28 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

not   of    interrogation,   but    of    affirmation,   as 
though  it  could  not  be  otherwise. 

'Till  to-morrow!'  echoed  Sanin. 

Emil,  Pantaleone,  and  the  poodle  Tartaglia 
accompanied  him  to  the  corner  of  the  street. 
Pantaleone  could  not  refrain  from  expressing 
his  displeasure  at  Gemma's  reading. 

'  She  ought  to  be  ashamed  !  She  mouths 
and  whines,  una  caricatiira  !  She  ought  to 
represent  Merope  or  Clytemnaestra — somethingVx 
grand,  tragic — and  she  apes  some  wretched 
German  woman !  I  can  do  that  .  .  .  merz^ 
kerz,  smcrzl  he  went  on  in  a  hoarse  voice 
poking  his  face  forward,  and  brandishing  his 
fingers.  Tartaglia  began  barking  at  him,  while 
Emil  burst  out  laughing.  The  old  man  turned 
sharply  back. 

Sanin  went  back  to  the  White  Swan  (he 
had  left  his  things  there  in  the  public  hall) 
in  a  rather  confused  frame  of  mind.  All  the 
talk  he  had  had  in  French,  German,  and 
Italian  was  ringing  in  his  ears. 

•  Engaged  ! '  he  whispered  as  he  lay  in  bed, 
in  the  modest  apartment  assigned  to  him. 
*  And  what  a  beauty !  But  what  did  I  stay 
for?'  -  - 

Next  day  he  sent  a  letter  to  his  friend  in 
Berlin. 


-t 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


VIII 

He  had  not  finished  dressing,  when  a  waiter 
announced  the  arrival  of  two  gentlemen.  One 
of  them  turned  out  to  be  Emil ;  the  other,  a 
good-looking  and  well-grown  young  man,  with 
a  handsome  face,  was  Herr  Karl  Kluber,  the 
betrothed  of  the  lovely  Gemma!  " 

One  may  safely  assume  that  at  that  time  in 
all  Frankfort,  there  was  not  in  a  single  shop 
a  manager  as  civil,  as  decorous,  as  dignified, 
and  as  affable  as  Herr  Kluber.  The  irreproach- 
able perfection  of  his  get-up  was  on  a  level 
with  the  dignity  of  his  deportment,  with  the 
elegance — a  little  affected  and  stiff,  it  is  true, 
in  Jjif  „,torltnh  r^ty]r  (he  had  spent  two  years 
in  England) — but  still  fascinating,  elegance  of 
his  manners  !  It  was  clear  from  the  first  glance 
that  this  handsome,  rather  severe,  excellently 
brought-up  and  superbly  washed  young  man 
was  accustomed  to  obey  his  superior  and  -to 
command  his  inferior,  and  that  behind  the 
counter  of  hir'*§t!b'p'"He''iri'ust  infallibly  inspire 
respect  even  in  his  customers!  Of  his  super- 
natural honesty  there  could  never  be  a  particle 
of  doubt :  one  had  but  to  look  at  his  stiffly 
starched  collars  !  And  his  voice,  it  appeared, 
30 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

was  just  what  one  would  expect  ;  deep,  and  of 
a  self-confident  richness,  but  not  too  loud,  with 
positively  a  certain  caressing  note  in  its  timbre. 
Such  a  voice  was  peculiarly  fitted  to  give 
orders  to  assistants  under  his  control :  '  Show 
the  crimson  Lyons  velvet ! '  or, '  Hand  the  lady 
a  chair!' 

Herr  Kliiber  began  with  introducing  himself; 
as  he  did  so,  he  bowed  with  such  loftiness, 
moved  his  legs  with  such  an  agreeable  air,  and 
drew  his  heels  together  with  such  polished 
courtesy  that  no  one  could  fail  to  feel,  '  that 
man  has  both  linen  and  moral  principles  of  the 
first  quality  ! '  The  finish  of  his  bare  right  hand 
— (the  left,  in  a  suede  glove,  held  a  hat  shining 
like  a  looking-glass,  with  the  right  glove  placed 
within  it) — the  finish  of  the  right  hand,  prof- 
fered modestly  but  resolutely  to  Sanin,  sur- 
passed all  belief;  each  finger-nail  was  a  per- 
fectioa.  in.  its  own  way!  Then  he  proceeded 
to  explain  in  the  choicest  German  that  he  was 
anxious  to  express  his  respect  and  his  indebted- 
ness to  the  foreign  gentleman  who  had  per- 
formed so  signal  a  service  to  his  future  kinsman, 
the  brother  of  his  betrothed  ;  as  he  spoke,  he 
waved  his  left  hand  with  the  hat  in  it  in  the 
direction  of  Emil,  who  seemed  bashful  and 
turning  away  to  the  window,  put  his  finger  in 
his  mouth.  Herr  Kliiber  added  that  he  should 
31 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

esteem  himself  happy  should  he  be  able  in 
return  to  do  anything  for  the  foreign  gentle-  | 
man.  Sanin,  with  some  difficulty,  replied,  also 
in  German,  that  he  was  delighted  .  .  .  that  the 
service  was  not  worth  speaking  of  .  .  .  and  he 
begged  his  guests  to  sit  down.  Herr  Kliiber 
thanked  him,  and  lifting  his  coat-tails,  sat  down 
on  a  chair  ;  but  he  perched  there  so  lightly 
and  with  such  a  transitory  air  that  no  one 
could  fail  to  realise,  *  this  man  is  sitting  down 
from  politeness,  and  will  fly  up  again  in  an 
instant'  And  he  did  in  fact  fly  up  again 
quickly,  and  advancing  with  two  discreet 
little  dance-steps,  he  announced  that  to  his 
regret  he  was  unable  to  stay  any  longer,  as  he 
had  to  hasten  to  his  shop — business  before 
everything  !  but  as  the  next  day  was  Sunday, 
he  had,  with  the  consent  of  Frau  Lenore  and 
Fraulein  Gemma,  arranged  a  holiday  excursion 
to  Soden,  to  which  he  had  the  honour  of  invit- 
ing the  foreign  gentleman,  and  he  cherished 
the  hope  that  he  would  not  refuse  to  grace  the 
party  with  his  presence.  Sanin  did  not  refuse 
so  to  grace  it ;  and  Herr  Kliiber  repeating  once 
more  his  complimentary  sentiments,  took  leave, 
his  pea-green  trousers  making  a  spot  of  cheerful 
colour,  and  his  brand-new  boots  squeaking 
cheerfully  as  he  moved. 


32 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


IX 


Emil,  who  had  continued  to  stand  with  his 
face  to  the  window,  even  after  Sanin's  invita- 
tion to  him  to  sit  down,  turned  round  directly 
his  future  kinsman  had  gone  out,  and  with  a 
childish  pout  and  blush,  asked  Sanin  if  he 
might  remain  a  little  while  with  him.  *  I  am 
much  better  to-day,'  he  added, '  but  the  doctor 
has  forbidden  me  to  do  any  work.' 

'  Stay  by  all  means !  You  won't  be  in  the 
least  in  my  way,*  Sanin  cried  at  once.  Like 
every  true  Russian  he  was  glad  to  clutch  at 
any  excuse  that  saved  him  from  the  necessity 
of  doing  anything  himself. 

Emil  thanked  him,  and  in  a  very  short  time 
he  was  completely  at  home  with  him  and  with 
his  room  ;  he  looked  at  all  his  things,  asked 
him  about  almost  every  one  of  them,  where  he 
had  bought  it,  and  what  was  its  value.  He 
helped  him  to  shave,  observing  that  it  was  a 
mistake  not  to  let  his  moustache  grow ;  and 
finally  told  him  a  number  of  details  about  his 
mother,  his  sister,  Pantaleone,  the  poodle  Tar- 
taglia,  and  all  their  daily  life.  Every  semblance 
of  timidity  vanished  in  Emil  ;  he  suddenly  felt 
extraordinarily  attracted  to  Sanin — not  at  all 
c  33 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

because  he  had  saved  his  life  the  day  before, 
but  because  he  was  such  a  nice  person !  He 
lost  no  time  in  confiding  all  his  secrets  to  Sanin. 
He  expatiated  with  special  warmth  on  the  fact 
that  his  mother  was  set  on  making  him  a  shop- 
keeper, while  he  k7iew^  knew  for  certain,  that  he 
was  born  an  artist,  a  musician,  a  singer ;  that 
Pantaleone  even  encouraged  him,  but  that  Herr 
Kluber  supported  mamma,  over  whom  he  had 
great  influence  ;  that  the  very  idea  of  his  being 
a  shopkeeper  really  originated  with  Herr 
KlubetT'wlio^''^  In  the 

w6rT3"co'uld  CQiCP'^ie'^vitli  trade  !  To  measure 
outTcloth — and  cheat  the  public,  extorting  from 
it  ^  Narren — oder  Russen  Preise'  (fools' — or 
Russian  prices) — that  was  his  ideal !  ^ 

'  Come  !  now  you  must  come  and  see  us  ! ' 
he  cried,  directly  Sanin  had  finished  his  toilet 
and  written  his  letter  to  Berlin. 

'It's  early  yet,'  observed  Sanin. 

*  That 's  no  matter,'  replied  Emil  caressingly. 
'  Come  along  !  We  '11  go  to  the  post — and  from 
there  to  our  place.  Gemma  will  be  so  glad  to 
see  you !     You  must  have  lunch  with  us.  .  .  . 


^  In  former  days — and  very  likely  it  is  not  different  now — 
when,  from  May  onwards,  a  great  number  of  Russians  visited 
Frankfort,  prices  rose  in  all  the  shops,  and  were  called  '  Rus- 
sians',' or,  alas  !   '  fools'  prices.' 

34 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

You  might  say  a  word  to  mamma  about  me, 
my  career.  .  .  .' 

'Very  well,  let's  go,'  said    Sanin,  and  they 
set  off. 


X 

Gemma  certainly  was  delighted  to  see  him,  and 
Frau  Lenore  gave  him  a  very  friendly  wel- 
come ;  he  had  obviously  made  a  good  impres- 
sion on  both  of  them  the  evening  before.  Emil 
ran  to  see  to  getting  lunch  ready,  after  a  pre- 
liminary whisper,  '  don't  forget  1 '  in  Sanin's 
ear. 

'  I  won't  forget,'  responded  Sanin. 

Frau  Lenore  was  not  quite  well ;  she  had  a 
sick  headache,  and,  half-lying  down  in  an  easy 
chair,  she  tried  to  keep  perfectly  still.  Gemma 
wore  a  full  yellow  blouse,  with  a  black  leather 
belt  round  the  waist ;  she  too  seemed  exhausted, 
and  was  rather  pale ;  there  were  dark  rings 
round  her  eyes,  but  their  lustre  was  not  the  less 
for  it ;  it  added  something  of  charm  and 
mystery  to  the  classical  lines  of  her  face. 
Sanin  was  especially  struck  that  day  by  the 
exquisite  beauty  of  her  hands ;  when  she 
smoothed  and  put  back  her  dark,  glossy  tresses 
he  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  her  long  supple 

35 

if 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

fingers,  held  slightly  apart  from   one   another 
like  the  hand  of  Raphael's  Fornarina. 

It  was  very  hot  out-of-doors  ;  after  lunch 
Sanin  was  about  to  take  leave,  but  they  told 
him  that  on  such  a  day  the  best  thing  was  to 
stay  where  one  was,  and  he  agreed  ;  he  stayed. 
In  the  back  room  where  he  was  sitting  with 
the  ladies  of  the  household,  coolness  reigned 
supreme ;  the  windows  looked  out  upon  a  little 
garden  overgrown  with  acacias.  Multitudes  of 
I  bees,  wasps,  and  humming  beetles  kept  up  a 
\  steady,  eager  buzz  in  their  thick  branches, 
\  which  were  studded  with  golden  blossoms ; 
through  the  half-drawn  curtains  and  the  lowered 
blinds  this  never-ceasing  hum  made  its  way 
into  the  room,  telling  of  the  sultry  heat  in  the 
air  outside,  and  making  the  cool  of  the  closed 
and  snug  abode  seem  the  sweeter. 

Sanin  talked  a  great  deal,  as  on  the  day 
before,  but  not  of  Russia,  nor  of  Russian  life. 
Being  anxious  to  please  his  young  friend,  who 
had  been  sent  off  to  Herr  Klliber's  immediately 
after  lunch,  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  book- 
keeping, he  turned  the  conversation  on  the 
comparative  advantages  and  disadvantages  of 
art  and  commerce.  He  was  not  surprised  at 
Frau  Lenore's  standing  up  for  commerce — he 
had  expected  that ;  but  Gemma  too  shared  her 
opinion. 

36 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'If  one's  an  artist,  and  especially  a  singer,* 
she  declared  with  a  vigorous  downward  sweep 
of  her  hand, '  one 's  got  to  be  first-rate  !  Second- 
rate 's  worse  than  nothing  ;  and  who  can  tell  if 
one  will  arrive  at  being  first-rate  ?  '  Pantaleone, 
who  took  part  too  in  the  conversation — (as  an 
old  servant  and  an  old  man  he  had  the  privilege 
of  sitting  down  in  the  presence  of  the  ladies  of 
the  house  ;  Italians  are  not,  as  a  rule,  strict  in 
matters  of  etiquette) — Pantaleone,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  stood  like  a  rock  for  art.  To  tell  the 
truth,  his  arguments  were  somewhat  feeble  ;  he 
kept  expatiating  for  the  most  part  on  the 
necessity,  before  all  things,  of  possessing  ^  un 
certo  estro  (Tinspirazione ' — a  certain  force  of 
inspiration !  Frau  Lenore  remarked  to  him 
that  he  had,  to  be  sure,  possessed  such  an 
^ estro^ — and  yet  ...  'I  had  enemies,'  Pan- 
taleone observed  gloomily.  '  And  how  do  you 
know  that  Emil  will  not  have  enemies,  even 
if  this  "  est7'o  "  is  found  in  him  ? '  *  Very  well, 
make  a  tradesman  of  him,  then,'  retorted  Pan- 
taleone in  vexation ;  *but  Giovan'  Battista  would 
never  have  done  it,  though  he  was  a  confec- 
tioner himself!'  'Giovan'  Battista,  my  hus- 
band, was  a  reasonable  man,  and  even  though 
he  was  in  his  youth  led  away  .  .  .'  But  the 
old  man  would  hear  nothing  more,  and  walked 
away,  repeating  reproachfully,  *  Ah !  Giovan' 
37 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

Battista  !  .  .  .'  Gemma  exclaimed  that  if  Emil 
felt  like  a  patriot,  and  wanted  to  devote  all  his 
powers  to  the  liberation  of  Italy,  then,  of  course, 
for  such  a  high  and  holy  cause  he  might  sacri- 
fice the  security  of  the  future — but  not  for  the 
theatre !  Thereupon  Frau  Lenore  became 
much  agitated,  and  began  to  implore  her 
daughter  to  refrain  at  least  from  turning  her 
brother's  head,  and  to  content  herself  with 
being  such  a  desperate  republican  herself! 
Frau  Lenore  groaned  as  she  uttered  these 
words,  and  began  complaining  of  her  head, 
which  was  '  ready  to  split'  (Frau  Lenore,  in 
deference  to  their  guest,  talked  to  her  daughter 
in  French.) 

Gemma  began  at  once  to  wait  upon  her  ;  she 
moistened  her  forehead  with  eau-de-cologne, 
gently  blew  on  it,  gently  kissed  her  cheek, 
made  her  lay  her  head  on  a  pillow,  forbade  her 
to  speak,  and  kissed  her  again.  Then,  turning 
to  Sanin,  she  began  telling  him  in  a  half-joking, 
half-tender  tone  what  a  splendid  mother  she 
had,  and  what  a  beauty  she  had  been.  '  "  Had 
been,"  did  I  say  ?  she  is  charming  now  !  Look, 
look,  what  eyes  ! ' 

Gemma  instantly  pulled  a  white  handkerchief 
out  of  her  pocket,  covered  her  mother's  face 
with  it,  and  slowly  drawing  it  downwards, 
gradually    uncovered  Frau    Lenore's  forehead, 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

eyebrows,  and  eyes  ;  she  waited  a  moment  and 
asked  her  to  open  them.  Her  mother  obeyed  ; 
Gemma  cried  out  in  ecstasy  (Frau  Lenore's 
eyes  really  were  very  beautiful),  and  rapidly 
sliding  the  handkerchief  over  the  lower,  less 
regular  part  of  the  face,  fell  to  kissing  her  again. 
Frau  Lenore  laughed,  and  turning  a  little  away, 
with  a  pretence  of  violence,  pushed  her  daughter 
away.  She  too  pretended  to  struggle  with  her 
mother,  and  lavished  caresses  on  her — not  like 
a  cat,  in  the  French  manner,  but  with  that 
special  Italian  grace  in  which  is  always  felt  the 
presence  of  power. 

At  last  Frau  Lenore  declared  she  was  tired 
out.  .  .  Then  Gemma  at  once  advised  her  to 
have  a  little  nap,  where  she  was,  in  her  chair, 
'  and  I  and  the  Russian  gentleman — "  avec  le 
monsieur  russe'' — will  be  as  quiet,  as  quiet  .  .  . 
as  little  mice  ...  "  comme  des  petites  sourish ' 
Frau  Lenore  smiled  at  her  in  reply,  closed  her 
eyes,  and  after  a  few  sighs  began  to  doze. 
Gemma  quickly  dropped  down  on  a  bench 
beside  her  and  did  not  stir  again,  only  from 
time  to  time  she  put  a  finger  of  one  hand  to  her 
lips — with  the  other  hand  she  was  holding  up 
a  pillow  behind  her  mother's  head — and  said 
softly,  '  sh-sh  ! '  with  a  sidelong  look  at  Sanin,  if 
he  permitted  himself  the  smallest  movement. 
In  the  end  he  too  sank  into  a  kind  of  dream,  and 
39 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

sat  motionless  as  though  spell-bound,  while  all 
his  faculties  were  absorbed  in  admiring  the 
picture  presented  him  by  the  half-dark  room, 
here  and  there  spotted  with  patches  of  light 
crimson,  where  fresh,  luxuriant  roses  stood  in  the 
old-fashioned  green  glasses,  and  the  sleeping 
woman  with  demurely  folded  hands  and  kind, 
weary  face,  framed  in  the  snowy  whiteness  of 
the  pillow,  and  the  young,  keenly-alert  and  also 
kind,  clever,  pure,  and  unspeakably  beautiful 
creature  with  such  black,  deep,  overshadowed, 
yet  shining  eyes.  .  .  .  What  was  it  ?  A 
dream  ?  a  fairy  tale  ?  And  how  came  he  to  be 
in  it? 


XI 

The  bell  tinkled  at  the  outer  door.  A  young 
peasant  lad  in  a  fur  cap  and  a  red  waistcoat 
came  into  the  shop  from  the  street.  Not  one 
customer  had  looked  into  it  since  early  morn- 
ing ...  *  You  see  how  much  business  we  do  ! ' 
Frau  Lenore  observed  to  Sanin  at  lunch-time 
with  a  sigh.  She  was  still  asleep  ;  Gemma  was 
afraid  to  take  her  arm  from  the  pillow,  and 
whispered  to  Sanin :  '  You  go,  and  mind  the 
shop  for  me  ! '  Sanin  went  on  tiptoe  into  the 
shop  at  once.  The  boy  wanted  a  quarter  of  a 
40 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

pound  of  peppermints.  '  How  much  must  I 
take  ? '  Sanin  whispered  from  the  door  to 
Gemma.  '  Six  kreutzers  ! '  she  answered  in 
the  same  whisper.  Sanin  weighed  out  a  quarter 
of  a  pound,  found  some  paper,  twisted  it  into 
a  cone,  tipped  the  peppermints  into  it,  spilt 
them,  tipped  them  in  again,  spilt  them  again, 
at  last  handed  them  to  the  boy,  and  took  the 
money.  .  .  .  The  boy  gazed  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment, twisting  his  cap  in  his  hands  on  his 
stomach,  and  in  the  next  room,  Gemma  was 
stifling  with  suppressed  laughter.  Before  the 
first  customer  had  walked  out,  a  second 
appeared,  then  a  third.  ...  *  I  bring  luck,  it 's 
clear  ! '  thought  Sanin.  The  second  customer 
wanted  a  glass  of  orangeade,  the  third,  half-a- 
pound  of  sweets.  Sanin  satisfied  their  needs, 
zealously  clattering  the  spoons,  changing  the 
saucers,  and  eagerly  plunging  his  fingers  into 
drawers  and  jars.  On  reckoning  up,  it  appeared 
that  he  had  charged  too  little  for  the  orangeade, 
and  taken  two  kreutzers  too  much  for  the  sweets. 
Gemma  did  not  cease  laughing  softly,  and  Sanin 
too  was  aware  of  an  extraordinary  lightness  of 
heart,  a  peculiarly  happy  state  of  mind.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  for  ever  been  standing  behind 
the  counter  and  dealing  in  orangeade  and  sweet- 
meats, with  that  exquisite  creature  looking  at 
him  through  the  doorway  with  affectionately 
41 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

mocking  eyes,  while  the  summer  sun,  forcing 

its  way  through  the  sturdy  leafage  of  the  chest- 

i        nuts  that  grew  in  front  of  the  windows,  filled 

'         the  whole  room  with  the  greenish-gold  of  the 

midday  light  and  shade,  and    the  heart  grew 

soft  in  the  sweet  languor  of  idleness,  careless- 

-.ness,  and  youth — first  youth!  "■' 

A  fourth  customer  asked  for  a  cup  of  coffee  ; 
Pantaleone  had  to  be  appealed  to.  (Emil  had 
not  yet  come  back  from  Herr  Kliiber's  shop.) 
Sanin  went  and  sat  by  Gemma  again.  Frau 
Lenore  still  went  on  sleeping,  to  her  daughter's 
great  delight.  *  Mamma  always  sleeps  off  her 
sick  headaches,'  she  observed.  Sanin  began 
talking — in  a  whisper,  of  course,  as  before — of 
his  minding  the  shop ;  very  seriously  inquired 
the  price  of  various  articles  of  confectionery ; 
Gemma  just  as  seriously  told  him  these  prices, 
and  meanwhile  both  of  them  were  inwardly 
laughing  together,  as  though  conscious  they 
were  playing  in  a  very  amusing  farce.  All  of 
a  sudden,  an  organ-grinder  in  the  street  began 
playing  an  air  from  the  Freischiitz  :  *  Diirck  die 
Felder,  durch  die  Auen  .  .  .'  The  dance  tune 
fell  shrill  and  quivering  on  the  motionless  air. 
Gemma  started  ...  *  He  will  wake  mamma  1 ' 
Sanin  promptly  darted  out  into  the  street, 
thrust  a  few  kreutzers  into  the  organ-grinder's 
hand,  and  made  him  cease  playing  and  move 
42 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

away.  When  he  came  back,  Gemma  thanked 
him  with  a  little  nod  of  the  head,  and  with 
a  pensive  smile  she  began  herself  just  audibly 
humming  the  beautiful  melody  of  Weber's,  in 
which  Max  expresses  all  the  perplexities  of 
first  love.  Then  she  asked  Sanin  whether  he 
knew  '  Freischiitz,'  whether  he  was  fond  of 
Weber,  and  added  that  though  she  was  herself 
an  Italian,  she  liked  sucJl  music  best  of  all. 
From  Weber  the  conversation  glided  off  on  to 
poetry  and  romanticism,  on  to  Hoffmann,  whom 
every  one  was  still  reading  at  that  time. 

And  Frau  Lenore  still  slept,  and  even  snored 
just  a  little,  and  the  sunbeams,  piercing  in 
narrow  streaks  through  the  shutters,  were  in- 
cessantly and  imperceptibly  shifting  and  travel- 
ling over  the  floor,  the  furniture.  Gemma's  dress, 
and  the  leaves  and  petals  of  the  flowers. 


XII 


It  appeared  that  Gemma  was  not  very  fond 
of  Hoffmann,  that  she  even  thought  him  .  .  . 
tedious  !  The  fantastic,  misty  northern  element 
in  his  stories  was  too  remote  from  her  clear, 
southern  nature.  'It's  all  fairy-tales,  all  written 
for  children  ! '  she  declared  with  some  contempt. 
She  was  vaguely  conscious,  too,  of  the  lack  of 
43 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

poetry  in   Hoffmann.     But  there  was  one  of 
his  stories,  the  title  of  which  she  had  forgotten, 
which  she  greatly  liked  ;  more  precisely  speak- 
ing, it  was  only  the  beginning  of  this  story  that 
#ie  liked ;  the  end  she  had  either  not  read  or 
pad  forgotten.     The  story  was  about  a  young 
|nan  who  in  some  place,  a  sort  of  restaurant 
)erhaps,   meets   a   girl   of  striking   beauty,   a 
i-reek  ;   she  is  accompanied  by  a  mysterious 
[and  strange,  wicked  old  man.    The  young  man 
[falls  in  love  with  the  girl  at  first  sight ;  she 
I  looks  at  him  so  mournfully,  as  though  beseech- 
fing  him  to  deliver  her.  .  .  .  He  goes  out  for  an 
I  instant,  and,  coming  back  into  the  restaurant, 
finds  there  neither  the  girl  nor  the  old  man  ;  he 
rushes  off  in  pursuit  of  her,  continually  comes 
upon  fresh  traces  of  her,  follows  them  up,  and 
can  never  by  any  means  come  upon  her  any- 
where.   The  lovely  girl  has  vanished  for  him  for 
ever  and  ever,  and  he  is  never  able  to  forget  her 
imploring  glance,  and  is  tortured  by  the  thought 
that  all  the  happiness  of  his  life,  perhaps,  has 
slipped  through  his  fingers. 

Hoffmann  does  not  end  his  story  quite  in 

that  way ;  but  so  it  had  taken  shape,  so  it  had 

remained,  in  Gemma's  memory. 

'^'         *  I  fancy,'  she  said,  'such  meetings  and  such 

■/■     partings  happen  oftener  in  the  world  than  we 

suppose.' 

44 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Sanin  was  silent .  .  .  and  soon  after  he  began 
talking  ...  of  Herr  Kliiber.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  referred  to  him ;  he  had  not  once 
remembered  him  till  that  instant. 

Gemma  was  silent  in  her  turn,  and  sank  into 
thought,  biting  the  nail  of  her  forefinger  and 
fixing  her  eyes  away.  Then  she  began  to 
speak  in  praise  of  her  betrothed,  alluded  to 
the  excursion  he  had  planned  for  the  next 
day,  and,  glancing  swiftly  at  Sanin,  was  silent 
again. 

Sanin  did  not  know  on  what  subject  to  turn 
the  conversation. 

Emil  ran  in  noisily  and  waked  Frau  Lenore 
.  .  .  Sanin  was  relieved  by  his  appearance. 

Frau  Lenore  got  up  from  her  low  chair. 
Pantaleone  came  in  and  announced  that  dinner 
was  ready.  The  friend  of  the  family,  ex-, 
singer,  and  servant  also  performed  the  duties 
of  cook. 


XIII 

Sanin  stayed  on  after  dinner  too.  They  did 
not  let  him  go,  still  on  the  same  pretext  of  the 
terrible  heat ;  and  when  the  heat  began  to  de- 
crease, they  proposed  going  out  into  the  garden 
to  drink  coffee  in  the  shade  of  the  acacias. 
45 


THE  TORRENTS   OF  SPRING 

Sanin  consented.  He  felt  very  happy.  In  the 
quietly  monotonous,  smooth  current  of  life  lie 
hid  great  delights,  and  he  gave  himself  up  to 
these  delights  with  zest,  asking  nothing  much 
of  the  present  day,  but  also  thinking  nothing 
of  the  morrow,  nor  recalling  the  day  before. 
How  much  the  mere  society  of  such  a  girl  as 
Gemma  meant  to  him  !  He  would  shortly  part 
from  her  and,  most  likely,  for  ever  ;  but  so  long 
as  they  were  borne,  as  in  Uhland's  song,  in  one 
skiff  over  the  sea  of  life,  untossed  by  tempest, 
well  might  the  traveller  rejoice  and  be  glad. 
And  everything  seemed  sweet  and  delightful 
to  the  happy  voyager.  Frau  Lenore  offered  to 
play  against  him  and  Pantaleone  at  '  tresette,' 
instructed  him  in  this  not  complicated  Italian 
game,  and  won  a  few  kreutzers  from  him,  and 
he  was  well  content.  Pantaleone,  at  Emil's 
request,  made  the  poodle,  Tartaglia,  perform 
all  his  tricks,  and  Tartaglia  jumped  over  a  stick 
'  spoke,'  that  is,  barked,  sneezed,  shut  the  door 
with  his  nose,  fetched  his  master's  trodden-down 
slippers  ;  and,  finally,  with  an  old  cap  on  his 
head,  he  portrayed  Marshal  Bernadotte,  sub- 
jected to  the  bitterest  upbraidings  by  the 
Emperor  Napoleon  on  account  of  his  treachery. 
Napoleon's  part  was,  of  course,  performed  by 
Pantaleone,  and  very  faithfully  he  performed 
it :  he  folded  his  arms  across  his  chest,  pulled 
46 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

a  cocked  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  spoke  very 
gruffly  and  sternly,  in  French — and  heavens  ! 
what  French !  Tartaglia  sat  before  his  sove- 
reign, all  huddled  up,  with  dejected  tail,  and 
eyes  blinking  and  twitching  in  confusion,  under 
the  peak  of  his  cap  which  was  stuck  on  awry ; 
from  time  to  time  when  Napoleon  raised  his  \^ 
voice,  Bernadotte  rose  on  his  hind  paws.  *  Ftiori, 
traditore  /'  cried  Napoleon  at  last,  forgetting  in 
the  excess  of  his  wrath  that  he  had  to  sus- 
tain his  role  as  a  Frenchman  to  the  end  ;  and 
Bernadotte  promptly  flew  under  the  sofa,  but 
quickly  darted  out  again  with  a  joyful  bark, 
as  though  to  announce  that  the  performance 
was  over.  All  the  spectators  laughed,  and 
Sanin  more  than  all. 

Gemma  had  a  particularly  charming,  con- 
tinual, soft  laugh,  with  very  droll  little  shrieks. 
.  .  .  Sanin  was  fairly  enchanted  by  that  laugh 
— he  could  have  kissed  her  for  those  shrieks ! 

Night  came  on  at  last.  He  had  in  decency 
to  take  leave  !  After  saying  good-bye  several 
times  over  to  every  one,  and  repeating  several 
times  to  all, '  till  to-morrow  ! ' — Emil  he  went 
so  far  as  to  kiss — Sanin  started  home,  carrying 
with  him  the  image  of  the  young  girl,  at  one 
time  laughing,  at  another  thoughtful,  calm,  and 
even  indifferent — but  always  attractive  !  Her 
eyes,  at  one  time  wide  open,  clear  and  bright 
47 


THE  TORRENTS   OF  SPRING 

as  day,  at  another  time  half  shrouded  by  the 
lashes  and  deep  and  dark  as  night,  seemed  to 
float  before  his  eyes,  piercing  in  a  strange 
sweet  way  across  all  other  images  and  recol- 
lections. 

Of  Herr  Kluber,  of  the  causes  impelling  him 
to  remain  in  Frankfort — in  short,  of  everything 
that  had  disturbed  his  mind  the  evening  before 
— he  never  thought  once. 


XIV 

We   must,  however,   say   a   few  words   about 
Sanin  himself. 

In  the  first  place,  he  was  very,  very  good- 
looking.  A  handsome,  graceful  figure,  agree- 
able, rather  unformed  features,  kindly  bluish 
eyes,  golden  hair,  a  clear  white  and  red  skin, 
and,  above  all,  that  peculiar,  naively-cheerful, 
confiding,  open,  at  the  first  glance,  somewhat 
foolish  expression,  by  which  in  former  days 
one  could  recognise  directly  the  children  of 
steady-going,  noble  families,  'sons  of  their 
fathers,'  fine  young  landowners,  born  and 
reared  in  our  open,  half-wild  country  parts, — 
a  hesitating  gait,  a  voice  with  a  lisp,  a  smile 
like  a  child's  the  minute  you  looked  at  him  .  .  . 
lastly,  freshness,  health,  softness,  softness,  soft- 
48 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

ness, — there  you  have  the  whole  of  Sanin. 
And  secondly,  he  was  not  stupid  and  had 
picked  up  a  fair  amount  of  knowledge.  Fresh 
he  had  remained,  for  all  his  foreign  tour ;  the 
disturbing  emotions  in  which  the  greater  part 
of  the  young  people  of  that  day  were  tempest- 
tossed  were  very  little  known  to  him. 

Of  late  years,  in  response  to  the  assiduous 
search  for  '  new  types,'  young  men  have  begun 
to  appear  in  our  literature,  determined  at  all 
hazards  to  be  *  fresh '  ...  as  fresh  as  Flensburg 
oysters,  when  they  reach  Petersburg.  .  .  .  Sanin 
was  not  like  them.  Since  we  have  had  recourse 
already  to  simile,  he  rather  recalled  a  young, 
leafy,  freshly-grafted  apple-tree  in  one  of  our 
fertile  orchards — or  better  still,  a  well-groomed, 
sleek,  sturdy-limbed,  tender  young  '  three-year- 
old  '  in  some  old-fashioned  seignorial  stud 
stable,  a  young  horse  that  they  have  hardly 
begun  to  break  in  to  the  traces.  .  .  .  Those 
who  came  across  Sanin  in  later  years,  when 
life  had  knocked  him  about  a  good  deal,  and 
the  sleekness  and  plumpness  of  youth  had 
long  vanished,  saw  in  him  a  totally  different/ 
man.  / 

Next  day  Sanin  was  still  in  bed  when  Emil, 
in  his  best  clothes,  with  a  cane  in  his  hand  and 
much  pomade  on  his  head,  burst  into  his  room, 
D  49 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

announcing  that  Herr  Kliiber  would  be  here 
directly  with  the  carriage,  that  the  weather 
promised  to  be  exquisite,  that  they  had  every- 
thing ready  by  now,  but  that  mamma  was  not 
going,  as  her  head  was  bad  again.  He  began 
to  hurry  Sanin,  telling  him  that  there  was  not 
a  minute  to  lose.  .  .  .  And  Herr  Kliiber  did, 
in  fact,  find  Sanin  still  at  his  toilet.  He 
knocked  at  the  door,  came  in,  bowed  with  a 
bend  from  the  waist,  expressed  his  readiness 
to  wait  as  long  as  might  be  desired,  and  sat 
down,  his  hat  balanced  elegantly  on  his  knees. 
The  handsome  shop-manager  had  got  himself 
up  and  perfumed  himself  to  excess :  his  every 
action  was  accompanied  by  a  powerful  whiff  of 
the  most  refined  aroma.  He  arrived  in  a 
comfortable  open  carriage — one  of  the  kind 
called  landau — drawn  by  two  tall  and  powerful 
but  not  well-shaped  horses.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  later  Sanin,  Kliiber,  and  Emil,  in  this 
same  carriage,  drew  up  triumphantly  at  the 
steps  of  the  confectioner's  shop.  Madame 
Roselli  resolutely  refused  to  join  the  party  ; 
Gemma  wanted  to  stay  with  her  mother  ;  but 
she  simply  turned  her  out. 

*  I  don't  want  any  one,'  she  declared  ;  *  I 
shall  go  to  sleep.  I  would  send  Pantaleone 
with  you  too,  only  there  would  be  no  one  to 
mind  the  shop.' 

50 


THE  TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

*  May  we  take  Tartaglia  ? '  asked  Emil. 

'  Of  course  you  may.' 

Tartaglia  immediately  scrambled,  with  de- 
lighted struggles,  on  to  the  box  and  sat  there, 
licking  himself;  it  was  obviously  a  thing  he 
was  accustomed  to.  Gemma  put  on  a  large 
straw  hat  with  brown  ribbons  ;  the  hat  was 
bent  down  in  front,  so  as  to  shade  almost  the 
whole  of  her  face  from  the  sun.  The  line  of 
shadow  stopped  just  at  her  lips  ;  they  wore 
a  tender  maiden  flush,  like  the  petals  of  a 
centifoil  rose,  and  her  teeth  gleamed  stealthily 
— innocently  too,  as  when  children  smile. 
Gemma  sat  facing  the  horses,  with  Sanin  ; 
Kliiber  and  Emil  sat  opposite.  The  pale  face 
of  Frau  Lenore  appeared  at  the  window ; 
Gemma  waved  her  handkerchief  to  her,  and 
the  horses  started. 


XV 


SODEN  is  a  little  town  half  an  hour's  distance 
from  Frankfort.  It  lies  in  a  beautiful  country 
among  the  spurs  of  the  Taunus  Mountains,  and 
is  known  among  us  in  Russia  for  its  waters, 
which  are  supposed  to  be  beneficial  to  people 
with  weak  lungs.  The  Frankforters  visit  it 
more  for  purposes  of  recreation,  as  Soden  pos- 
51 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

sesses  a  fine  park  and  various  '  wirthschaften,' 
where  one  may  drink  beer  and  coffee  in  the 
shade  of  the  tall  limes  and  maples.  The  road 
from  Frankfort  to  Soden  runs  along  the  right 
bank  of  the  Maine,  and  is  planted  all  along 
with  fruit  trees.  While  the  carriage  was 
rolling  slowly  along  an  excellent  road,  Sanin 
stealthily  watched  how  Gemma  behaved  to 
her  betrothed ;  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
seen  them  together.^jS^-.was.45u-iet  and  simple 
in  her  ..manner,  but  ratber  more  reserved  and 
serious  than  usual  \_Jie_  had  the  air  of  a  con- 
descending schoolmaster,  permitting  himself 
atid-thtJse'Tmdei"  his  authority  a  discreet  and 
decorous  pleasure.  Sanin  saw  no  signs  in  him 
of  any  marked  attentiveness,  of  what  the 
French  call  ^  empressement^  in  his  demeanour 
to  Gemma.  It  was  clear  that  Herr  Kliiber 
considered  that  it  was  a  matter  settled  once 
for  all,  and  that  therefore  he  saw  no  reason  to 
trouble  or  excite  himself.  But  his  condescen- 
sion never  left  him  for  an  instant !  Even 
during  a  long  ramble  before  dinner  about  the 
wooded  hills  and  valleys  behind  Soden,  even 
when  enjoying  the  beauties  of  nature,  he 
tre9,t.gd^ nature  itself  w^th  the  same  condescen- 
sion, througfi'"w1iich  his  fiabitual  magisterial 
severity  peeped  out  from  time  to  time.  So,  for 
example,  he  observed  in  regard  to  one  stream 
52 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

that  it  ran  too  straight  through  the  glade, 
instead  of  making  a  few  picturesque  curves  ; 
he  disapproved,  too,  of  the  conduct  of  a  bird 
— a  chaffinch — for  singing  so  monotonously. 
Gemma  was  not  bored,  and  even,  apparently, 
was  enjoying  herself;  but  Sanin  did  not  recog- 
nise her  as  the  Gemma  of  the  preceding  days  ; 
it  was  not  that  she  seemed  under  a  cloud — her 
beauty  had  never  been  more  dazzling — but  her 
soul  seemed  to  have  withdrawn  into  herself. 
With  her  parasol  open  and  her  gloves  still 
buttoned  up,  she  walked  sedately,  deliberately, 
as  well-bred  young  girls  walk,  and  spoke 
little.  Emil,  too,  felt  stiff,  and  Sanin  more 
so  than  all.  He  was  somewhat  embarrassed 
too  by  the  fact  that  the  conversation  was  all 
the  time  in  German.  Only  Tartaglia  was  in 
high  spirits  !  He  darted,  barking  frantically, 
after  blackbirds,  leaped  over  ravines,  stumps 
and  roots,  rushed  headlong  into  the  water, 
lapped  at  it  in  desperate  haste,  shook  himself, 
whining,  and  was  off  like  an  arrow,  his  red 
tongue  trailing  after  him  almost  to  his  shoulder. 
Herr  Kliiber,  for  his  part,  did  everything  he 
supposed  conducive  to  the  mirthfulness  of  the 
company ;  he  begged  them  to  sit  down  in  the 
shade  of  a  spreading  oak-tree,  and  taking  out 
of  a  side  pocket  a  small  booklet  entitled, 
*  Knallerhsen  ;  oder  du  sollst  und  wirst  lachen  ! ' 
53 


A 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

^Squibs  ;  or  you  must  and  shall  laugh  !)  began 
reading  the  funny  anecdotes  of  which  the  little 
book  was  full.  He  read  them  twelve  speci- 
mens ;  he  aroused  very  little  mirth,  however ; 
only  Sanin  smiled,  from  politeness,  and  he 
himself,  Herr  KlUber,  after  each  anecdote,  gave 
vent  to  a  brief,  business-like,  but  still  con- 
descending laugh.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  whole 
party  returned  to  Soden  to  the  best  tavern 
there. 

They  had  to  make  arrangements  about 
dinner.  Herr  Kluber  proposed  that  the  dinner 
should  be  served  in  a  summer-house  closed  in 
on  all  sides — '  im  Garteitsalon '  ;  but  at  this 
point  Gemma  rebelled  and  declared  that  she 
would  have  dinner  in  the  open  air,  in  the 
garden,  at  one  of  the  little  tables  set  before 
the  tavern ;  that  she  was  tired  of  being  all  the 
while  with  the  same  faces,  and  she  wanted  to 
see  fresh  ones.  At  some  of  the  little  tables, 
groups  of  visitors  were  already  sitting. 

While  Herr  Kluber,  yielding  condescendingly 
to  '  the  caprice  of  his  betrothed,'  went  off  to 
interview  the  head  waiter,  Gemma  stood  im- 
movable, biting  her  lips  and  looking  on  the 
ground  ;  she  was  conscious  that  Sanin  was 
persistently  and,  as  it  were,  inquiringly  looking 
at  her — it  seemed  to  enrage  her.  At  last  Herr 
Kluber  returned,  announced  that  dinner  would 
54 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

be  ready  in  half  an  hour,  and  proposed  their 
employing  the  interval  in  a  game  of  skittles, 
adding  that  this  was  very  good  for  the  appe- 
tite, he,  he,  he !  Skittles  he  played  in  masterly 
fashion  ;  as  he  threw  the  ball,  he  put  himself 
into  amazingly  heroic  postures,  with  artistic 
play  of  the  muscles,  with  artistic  flourish  and 
shake  of  the  leg.  In  his  own  way  he  was  an 
athlete — and  was  superbly  built !  His  hands, 
too,  were  so  white  and  handsome,  and  he 
wiped  them  on  such  a  sumptuous,  gold-striped, 
Indian  bandana ! 

The  moment  of  dinner  arrived,  and  the  whole 
party  seated  themselves  at  the  table. 


XVI 

Who  does  not  know  what  a  German  dinner  is 
like  ?  Watery  soup  with  knobby  dumplings 
and  pieces  of  cinnamon,  boiled  beef  dry  as  cork, 
with  white  fat  attached,  slimy  potatoes,  soft 
beetroot  and  mashed  horseradish,  a  bluish  eel 
with  French  capers  and  vinegar,  a  roast  joint 
with  jam,  and  the  inevitable  ' MeJilspeise'  some- 
thing of  the  nature  of  a  pudding  with  sourish 
red  sauce ;  but  to  make  up,  the  beer  and  wine 
first-rate  !  With  just  such  a  dinner  the  tavern- 
keeper  at  Soden  regaled  his  customers.  The 
55 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

dinner,  itself,  however,  went  off  satisfactorily. 
No  special  liveliness  was  perceptible,  certainly  ; 
not  even  when  Herr  Kluber  proposed  the  toast 
'  What  we  like  ! '  (Was  wir  lieben  !)  But  at 
least  everything  was  decorous  and  seemly. 
After  dinner,  coffee  was  served,  thin,  reddish, 
typically  German  coffee.  Herr  Kluber,  with 
true  gallantry,  asked  Gemma's  permission  to 
smoke  a  cigar.  .  .  .  But  at  this  point  suddenly 
something  occurred,  unexpected,  and  decidedly 
unpleasant,  and  even  unseemly  ! 

At  one  of  the  tables  near  were  sitting  several 
officers  of  the  garrison  of  the  Maine.  From 
their  glances  and  whispering  together  it  was 
easy  to  perceive  that  they  were  struck  by 
Gemma's  beauty ;  one  of  them,  who  had 
probably  stayed  in  Frankfort,  stared  at  her 
persistently,  as  at  a  figure  familiar  to  him  ;  he 
obviously  knew  who  she  was.  He  suddenly 
got  up,  and  glass  in  hand — all  the  officers  had 
been  drinking  hard,  and  the  cloth  before  them 
was  crowded  with  bottles — approached  the 
table  at  which  Gemma  was  sitting.  He  was  a 
very  young  flaxen-haired  man,  with  a  rather 
pleasing  and  even  attractive  face,  but  his 
features  were  distorted  with  the  wine  he  had 
drunk,  his  cheeks  were  twitching,  his  blood-shot 
eyes  wandered,  and  wore  an  insolent  expression. 
His  companions  at  first  tried  to  hold  him  back, 
56 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

but  afterwards  let  him  go,  interested  apparently 
to  see  what  he  would  do,  and  how  it  would 
end.  Slightly  unsteady  on  his  legs,  the  officer 
stopped  before  Gemma,  and  in  an  unnaturally 
screaming  voice,  in  which,  in  spite  of  himself, 
an  inward  struggle  could  be  discerned,  he 
articulated,  '  I  drink  to  the  health  of  the 
prettiest  confectioner  in  all  Frankfort,  in  all 
the  world  (he  emptied  his  glass),  and  in  return 
I  take  this  flower,  picked  by  her  divine  little 
fingers  ! '  He  took  from  the  table  a  rose  that 
lay  beside  Gemma's  plate.  At  first  she  was 
astonished,  alarmed,  and  turned  fearfully  white 
.  .  .  then  alarm  was  replaced  by  indignation  ; 
she  suddenly  crimsoned  all  over,  to  her  very 
hair — and  her  eyes,  fastened  directly  on  the 
offender,  at  the  same  tirne  darkened  and 
flamed,  they  were  filled  with  black  gloom,  and 
burned  with  the  fire  of  irrepxes*ibie-fury.  The 
officer  must  have  been  confused  by  this  look ; 
he  muttered  something  unintelligible,  bowed, 
and  walked  back  to  his  friends.  They  greeted 
him  with  a  laugh,  and  faint  applause. 

Herr  Kluber  rose  spasmodically  from  his 
seat,  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and 
putting  on  his  hat  pronounced  with  dignity, 
but  not  too  loud,  '  Unheard  of  1  "  Unheard  of ! 
Unheard  of  impertinence  ! '  and  at  once  calling 
up  the  waiter,  in  a"  seveFe  voice  asked  for  the 
57 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

bill  .  .  .  more  than  that,  ordered  the  carriage 
to  be  put  to,  adding  that  it  was  impossible  for 
respectable  people  to  frequent  the  establishment 
if  they  were  exposed  to  insult !  At  those 
words  Gemma,  who  still  sat  in  her  place  without 

(stirring — her  bosom  was  heaving  violently — 
Gemma  raised  her  eyes  to  Herr  Kliiber  .  .  . 
and  she  gazed  as  intently,  with  the  same 
expression  at  him  as  at  the  officer.  Emil  was 
,  simply  shaking  with  rage. 

*  Get  up,  mein  Frdulein^  Kliiber  admonished 
her  with  the  same  severity,  *  it  is  not  proper  for 
you  to  remain  here.  We  will  go  inside,  in  the 
tavern ! ' 

Gemma  rose  in  silence  ;  he  offered  her  his 
arm,  she  gave  him  hers,  and  he  walked  into  the 
tavern  with  a  majestic  step,  which  became,  with 
his  whole  bearing,  more  majestic  and  haughty 
the  farther  he  got  from  the  place  where  they 
had  dined.  Poor  Emil  dragged  himself  after 
them. 

Bu.t  wMfi^ii^^ -i^iwi^J^  up  with 

t h e,>!y!;a*t««^*t'b"^hl^M, '^^^  p f , p un i s h m e n t ,  he 

gave  not  a  single  kreutzer  for  himself,  Sanin 
with  rapid  steps  approached  the  table  at  which 
the  officers  were  sitting,  and  addressing  Gemma's 
assailant,  who  was  at  that  instant  offering  her 
rose  to  his  companions  in  turns  to  smell,  he 
uttered  very  distinctly  in  French,  '  What  you 
58 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

have  just  done,  sir,  is  conduct  unworthy  of  an 
honest  man,  unworthy  of  the  uniform  you 
wear,  and  I  have  come  to  tell  you  you  are  an 
ill-bred  cur  ! '  The  young  man  leaped  on  to 
his  feet,  but  another  officer,  rather  older,  checked 
him  with  a  gesture,  made  him  sit  down,  and 
turning  to  Sanin  asked  him  also  in  French, 
'  Was  he  a  relation,  brother,  or  betrothed  of  the 
girl?' 

*  I  am  nothing  to  her  at  all,'  cried  Sanin,  '  I 
am  a  Russian,  but  I  cannot  look  on  at  such 
insolence  with  indifference ;  but  here  is  my 
card  and  my  address  ;  monsieur  Vofficier  can 
find  me.' 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  Sanin  threw  his 
visiting-card  on  the  table,  and  at  the  same 
moment  hastily  snatched  Gemma's  rose,  which 
one  of  the  officers  sitting  at  the  table  had 
dropped  into  his  plate.  The  young  man  was 
again  on  the  point  of  jumping  up  from  the 
table,  but  his  companion  again  checked  him, 
saying,  *  Donhof,  be  quiet !  Donhof,  sit  still.' 
Then  he  got  up  himself,  and  putting  his  hand 
to  the  peak  of  his  cap,  with  a  certain  shade  of 
respectfulness  in  his  voice  and  manner,  told 
Sanin  that  to-morrow  morning  an  officer  of  the 
regiment  would  have  the  honour  of  calling  upon 
him.  Sanin  replied  with  a  short  bow,  and 
hurriedly  returned  to  his  friends. 
59 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Herr  Kliiber  pretended  he  had  not  noticed 
either  Sanin's  absence  nor  his  interview  with 
the  officers ;  he  was  urging  on  the  coachman, 
who  was  putting  in  the  horses,  and  was  furiously 
angry  at  his  deliberateness.  Gemma  too  said 
nothing  to  Sanin,  she  did  not  even  look  at  him  ; 
from  her  knitted  brows,  from  her  pale  and 
compressed  lips,  from  her  very  immobility  it 
could  be  seen  that  she  was  suffering  inwardly. 
Only  Emil  obviously  wanted  to  speak  to 
Sanin,  wanted  to  question  him  ;  he  had  seen 
Sanin  go  up  to  the  officers,  he  had  seen  him 
give  them  something  white — a  scrap  of  paper, 
a  note,  or  a  card.  .  .  .  The  poor  boy's  heart  was 
beating,  his  cheeks  burned,  he  was  ready  to 
throw  himself  on  Sanin's  neck,  ready  to  cry,  or 
to  go  with  him  at  once  to  crush  all  those 
accursed  officers  into  dust  and  ashes !  He 
controlled  himself,  however,  and  did  no  more 
than  watch  intently  every  movement  of  his 
noble  Russian  friend. 

The  coachman  had  at  last  harnessed  the 
horses ;  the  whole  party  seated  themselves  in 
the  carriage.  Emil  climbed  on  to  the  box, 
after  Tartaglia  ;  he  was  more  comfortable 
there,  and  had  not  Kliiber,  whom  he  could 
hardly  bear  the  sight  of,  sitting  opposite  to  him. 

The    whole   way   home    Herr    Kliiber    dis- 
60 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

coursed  .  .  .  and  he  discoursed  alone  ;  no  one, 
absoTutelyTTO-one,  oppoaed  liiili;ifTgrgT(rahy  one 
agree  with  him.  He  especially  insisted  on  the 
point  that  they  had  been  wrong  in  not  following 
his  advice  when  he  suggested  dining  in  a  shut- 
up  summer-house.  There  no  unpleasantness 
could  have  occurred  !  Then  he  expressed  a 
few  decided  and  even  liberal  sentiments  on  the 
unpardonable  way  in  which  the  government 
favoured  the  military,  neglected  their  discipline, 
and  did  not  sufficiently  consider  the  civilian 
element  in  society  {das  biirgerliche  Element 
in  der  Societdt  I),  and  foretold  that  in  time  this 
cause  would  give  rise  to  discontent,  which  might 
well  pass  into  revolution,  of  which  (here  he 
dropped  a  sympathetic  though  severe  sigh) 
France  had  given  them  a  sorrowful  example ! 
He  added,  however,  that  he  personally  had  the 
greatest  respect  for  authority,  and  never  .  .  . 
no,  never !  .  .  .  could  be  a  revolutionist — but  he 
could  not  but  express  his  .  .  .  disapprobation 
at  the  sight  of  such  licence  !  Then  he  made  a 
few  general  observations  on  morality  and 
immorality,  good-breeding,  and  the  sense  of 
dignity. 

During  all  these  lucubrations.  Gemma,  who 

even  while  they  were  walking  before  dinner  had 

not  seeinexij2Hi^   pleased   with  Herr  Kliiber, 

and  had  therefore  heTH'Tather'aToorti'CffTrSanin, 

6i  


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

and  had  been,  as  it  were,  embarrassed  by  his 
presence — Gemma  was  unmistakably  ashamed 
of  her  betrothed  !  Towards  the  end  of  the 
drive  she  was  positively  wretched,  and  though, 
as  before,  she  did  not  address  a  word  to  Sanin, 
she  suddenly  flung  an  imploring  glance  at  him. 
.  .  .  He,  for  his  part,  felt  much  more  sorry  for 
her  than  indignant  with  Herr  Kliiber ;  he  was 
even  secretly,  half-consciously,  delighted  at 
what  had  happened  in  the  course  of  that  day, 
even  though  he  had  every  reason  to  expect  a 
challenge  next  morning. 

This  miserable  pai'tie  de  plaisir  came  to  an 
end  at  last.  As  he  helped  Gemma  out  of  the 
carriage  at  the  confectionery  shop,  Sanin  with- 
out a  word  put  into  her  hand  the  rose  he  had 
recovered.  She  flushed  crimson,  pressed  his 
hand,  and  instantly  hid  the  rose.  He  did  not 
want  to  go  into  the  house,  though  the  evening 
was  only  just  beginning.  She  did  not  even 
invite  him.  Moreover  Pantaleone,  who  came 
out  on  the  steps,  announced  that  Frau  Lenore 
was  asleep.  Emil  took  a  shy  good-bye  of 
Sanin  ;  he  felt  as  it  were  in  awe  of  him  ;  he 
greatly  admired  him.  Kliiber  saw  Sanin  to  his 
lodging,  and  took  leave  of  him  stiffly.  The 
well-regulated  German,  for  all  his  self-con- 
fidence, felt  awkward.  And  indeed  every  one 
felt  awkward. 

62 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

But  in  Sanin  this  feeling  of  awkwardness 
soon  passed  off.  It  was  replaced  by  a  vague, 
■~4iut__£leasant,  even  triumphant  feeling.  He 
vvalked'up'^ii^'(?o\vri  Tils  room,  whistling,  and 
not  caring  to  think  about  anything,  and  was 
very  well  pleased  with  himself 


XVII 

'  I  WILL  wait  for  the  officer's  visit  till  ten 
o'clock,'  he  reflected  next  morning,  as  he 
dressed,  *  and  then  let  him  come  and  look  for 
me  ! '  But  Germans  rise  early  :  it  had  not  yet 
struck  nine  when  the  waiter  informed  Sanin 
that  the  Herr  Seconde  Lieutenant  von  Richter 
wished  to  see  him.  Sanin  made  haste  to  put 
on  his  coat,  and  told  him  to  ask  him  up.  Herr 
Richter  turned  out,  contrary  to  Sanin's  expecta- 
tion, to  be  a  very  young  man,  almost  a  boy. 
He  tried  to  give  an  expression  of  dignity  to 
his  beardless  face,  but  did  not  succeed  at  all : 
he  could  not  even  conceal  his  embarrassment, 
and  as  he  sat  down  on  a  chair,  he  tripped  over 
his  sword,  and  almost  fell.  Stammering  and 
hesitating,  he  announced  to  Sanin  in  bad 
French  that  he  had  come  with  a  message  from 
his  friend,  Baron  von  Donhof ;  that  this  message 
was  to  demand  from  Herr  von  Sanin  an  apology 
63 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

for  the  insulting  expressions  used  by  him  on 
the  previous  day ;  and  in  case  of  refusal  on 
the  part  of  Herr  von  Sanin,  Baron  von  Donhof 
would  ask  for  satisfaction.  Sanin  replied  that 
he  did  not  mean  to  apologise,  but  was  ready 
to  give  him  satisfaction.  Then  Herr  von 
Richter,  still  with  the  same  hesitation,  asked 
with  whom,  at  what  time  and  place,  should  he 
arrange  the  necessary  preliminaries.  Sanin 
answered  that  he  might  come  to  him  in  two 
hours'  time,  and  that  meanwhile,  he,  Sanin, 
would  try  and  find  a  second.  (*  Who  the  devil 
is  there  I  can  have  for  a  second  ? '  he  was 
thinking  to  himself  meantime.)  Herr  von 
Richter  got  up  and  began  to  take  leave  .  .  . 
but  at  the  doorway  he  stopped,  as  though  stung 
by  a  prick  of  conscience,  and  turning  to  Sanin 
observed  that  his  friend.  Baron  von  Donhof, 
could  not  but  recognise  .  .  .  that  he  had  been 
...  to  a  certain  extent,  to  blame  himself  in 
the  incident  of  the  previous  day,  and  would, 
therefore,  be  satisfied  with  slight  apologies  {^dcs 
exghizes  lecheres!)  To  this  Sanin  replied  that 
he  did  not  intend  to  make  any  apology  what- 
ever, either  slight  or  considerable,  since  he  did 
not  consider  himself  to  blame.  '  In  that  case,' 
answered  Herr  von  Richter,  blushing  more  than 
ever, '  you  will  have  to  exchange  friendly  shots 
— des  goups  de  bisdolet  a  famiaple ! ' 
64 


THE   TORRIilNTS   OF  SPRING 

'  I  don't  understand  that  at  all,'  observed 
Sanin  ;  '  are  we  to  fire  in  the  air  or  what  ? ' 

'  Oh,  not  exactly  that,'  stammered  the  sub- 
lieutenant, utterly  disconcerted,  'but  I  supposed 
since  it  is  an  affair  between  men  of  honour  .  .  . 
I  will  talk  to  your  second,'  he  broke  off,  and 
went  away. 

Sanin  dropped  into  a  chair  directly  he  had 
gone,  and  stared  at  the  floor.  '  What  does  it 
all  mean?  How  is  it  my  life  has  taken  sucb*«^^^^>^ 
a-tttrrt  all  of  a- sudden  ?  All  the  past,  all  the  '■''' 
future  has  suddenly  vanished,  gone, — and  all 
that  *s  left  is  that  I  am  going  to  fight  some  one 
about  something  in  Frankfort.'  He  recalled 
a  crazy  aunt  of  his  who  used  to  dance  and 
sing : 

'  O  my  lieutenant ! 
My  little  cucumber  ! 
My  little  love  ! 
Dance  with  me,  my  little  dove  ! ' 

And  he  laughed  and  hummed  as  she  used  to  : 
'  O  my  lieutenant !  Dance  with  me,  little  dove  ! ' 
'  But  I  must  act,  though,  I  mustn't  waste  time,' 
he  cried  aloud — ^jumped  up  and  saw  Panta- 
leone  facing  him  with  a  note  in  his  hand. 

'  I  knocked  several  times,  but  you  did  not 
answer  ;  I  thought  you  weren't  at  home,'  said 
the  old  man,  as  he  gave  him  the  note.  '  From 
Signorina  Gemma.' 

E  65 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

Sanin  took  the  note,  mechanically,  as  they 
say,  tore  it  open,  and  read  it.  Gemma  wrote 
to  him  that  she  was  very  anxious — about  he 
knew  what — and  would  be  very  glad  to  see 
him  at  once. 

'  The  Signorina  is  anxious,'  began  Panta- 
leone,  who  obviously  knew  what  was  in  the 
note,  '  she  told  me  to  see  what  you  are  doing 
and  to  bring  you  to  her.' 

Sanin  glanced  at  the  old  Italian,  and  pon- 
dered. A  sudden  idea  flashed  upon  his  brain. 
For  the  first  instant  it  struck  him  as  too  absurd 
to  be  possible. 

*  After  all  .  .  .  why  not  ? '  he  asked  himself. 
'  M.  Pantaleone  ! '  he  said  aloud. 

The  old  man  started,  tucked  his  chin  into  his 
cravat  and  stared  at  Sanin. 

'  Do  you  know,'  pursued  Sanin,  '  what  hap- 
pened yesterday  ? ' 

Pantaleone  chewed  his  lips  and  shook  his 
immense  top-knot  of  hair.     *  Yes.' 

(Emil  had  told  him  all  about  it  directly  he 
got  home.) 

*  Oh,  you  know !  Well,  an  officer  has  just 
this  minute  left  me.  That  scoundrel  challenges 
me  to  a  duel.  I  have  accepted  his  challenge. 
But  I  have  no  second.  Will  j^ou  be  my 
second  ? ' 

Pantaleone  started  and  raised  his  eyebrows 
66 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

SO  high  that  they  were  lost    under  his  over- 
hanging hair. 

*  You  are  absolutely  obliged  to  fight  ? '  he 
said  at  last  in  Italian  ;  till  that  instant  he  had 
made  use  of  French. 

'  Absolutely.     I  can't  do  otherwise — it  would 
mean  disgracing  myself  for  ever.' 
'  *  H'm.     If  I  don't  consent  to  be  your  second 
you  will  find  some  one  else.' 

'Yes  .  .  .  undoubtedly.' 

Pantaleone  looked  down.  *  But  allow  me  to 
ask  you,  Signor  de  Tsanin,  will  not  your  duel 
throw  a  slur  on  the  reputation  of  a  certain 
lady.?' 

*  I  don't  suppose  so  ;  but  in  any  case,  there 's 
no  help  for  it.' 

*  H'm  ! '  Pantaleone  retired  altogether  into 
his  cravat.  '  Hey,  but  that  ferroflucto  Klilberio 
— what's  he  about?'  he  cried  all  of  a  sudden, 
looking  up  again. 

'  He  ?     Nothing.' 

*  Che  ! '  Pantaleone  shrugged  his  shoulders 
contemptuously.  *  I  have,  in  any  case,  to  thank 
you,'  he  articulated  at  last  in  an  unsteady  voice 
'  that  even  in  my  present  humble  condition 
you  recognise  that  I  am  a  gentleman — uti 
galanf  iioino !  In  that  way  you  have  shown 
yourself  to  be  a  real  galant'iiomo.  But  I  must 
consider  your  proposal.' 

67 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'  There's  no  time  to  lose,  dear  Signor  Ci  .  .  . 
cippa  .  .  .' 

'  Tola,'  the  old  man  chimed  in.  '  I  ask 
only  for  one  hour  for  reflection.  .  .  .  The 
daughter  of  my  benefactor  is  involved  in  this. 
.  .  .  And,  therefore,  I  ought,  I  am  bound,  to 
reflect !  .  .  .  In  an  hour,  in  three-quarters  of 
an  hour,  you  shall  know  my  decision.' 
.    *  Very  well  ;  I  will  wait.' 

'  And  now  .  .  .  what  answer  am  I  to  give  to 
Signorina  Gemma?' 

Sanin  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  wrote  on  it, 
'  Set  your  mind  at  rest,  dear  friend ;  in  three 
hours'  time  I  will  come  to  you,  and  everything 
shall  be  explained.  I  thank  you  from  my 
heart  for  your  sympathy,'  and  handed  this 
sheet  to  Pantaleone. 

He  put  it  carefully  into  his  side-pocket,  and 
once  more  repeating  *  In  an  hour ! '  made  to- 
wards the  door  ;  but  turning  sharply  back,  ran 
up  to  Sanin,  seized  his  hand,  and  pressing  it 
to  his  shirt-front,  cried,  with  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling  :  '  Noble  youth  !  Great  heart !  {Nobil 
giovanotto  !  Gran  cuore  /)  permit  a  weak  old 
man  {a  un  vecchiotto  f)  to  press  your  valorous 
right  hand  {la  vostra  valorosa  dcstral)'  Then 
he  skipped  back  a  pace  or  two,  threw  up  both 
hands,  and  went  away. 

Sanin  looked  after  him    .   .   .   took  up  the 
68 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

newspaper  and  tried  to  read.  But  his  eyes 
wandered  in  vain  over  the  lines  :  he  understood 
nothing. 


XVIII 

An  hour  later  the  waiter  came  in  again  to 
Sanin,  and  handed  him  an  old,  soiled  visiting- 
card,  on  which  were  the  following  words  : 
'  Pantaleone  Cippatola  of  Varese,  court  singer 
{cafitante  di  camera)  to  his  Royal  Highness 
the  Duke  of  Modena ' ;  and  behind  the  waiter 
in  walked  Pantaleone  himself.  He  had  changed 
his  clothes  from  top  to  toe.  He  had  on  a 
black  frock  coat,  reddish  with  long  wear,  and 
a  white  pique  waistcoat,  upon  which  a  pinch- 
beck chain  meandered  playfully ;  a  heavy 
cornelian  seal  hung  low  down  on  to  his  narrow 
black  trousers.  In  his  right  hand  he  carried  a 
black  beaver  hat,  in  his  left  two  stout  chamois 
gloves  ;  he  had  tied  his  cravat  in  a  taller  and 
broader  bow  than  ever,  and  had  stuck  into 
his  starched  shirt-front  a  pin  with  a  stone,  a 
so-called  '  cat's  eye.'  On  his  forefinger  was 
displayed  a  ring,  consisting  of  two  clasped 
hands  with  a  burning  heart  between  them.  A 
smell  of  garments  long  laid  by,  a  smell  of 
camphor  and  of  musk  hung  about  the  whole 
69 


THE  TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

person  of  the  old  man  ;  the  anxious  solemnity 
of  his  deportment  must  have  struck  the  most 
casual  spectator  !     Sanin  rose  to  meet  him. 

*  I  am  your  second/  Pantaleone  announced 
in  French,  and  he  bowed  bending  his  whole 
body  forward,  and  turning  out  his  toes  like 
a  dancer.  *  I  have  come  for  instructions.  Do 
you  want  to  fight  to  the  death  ? ' 

'  Why  to  the  death,  my  dear  Signor 
Cippatola  ?  I  will  not  for  any  consideration 
take  back  my  words — but  I  am  not  a  blood- 
thirsty person !  .  .  .  But  come,  wait  a  little, 
my  opponent's  second  will  be  here  directly.  I 
will  go  into  the  next  room,  and  you  can  make 
arrangements  with  him.  Believe  me  I  shall 
never  forget  your  kindness,  and  I  thank  you 
from  my  heart.' 

'  Honour  before  everything ! '  answered 
Pantaleone,  and  he  sank  into  an  arm-chair, 
without  waiting  for  Sanin  to  ask  him  to  sit 
down.  '  If  that  ferroflucto  spitchebubbio!  he 
said,  passing  from  French  into  Italian,  '  if  that 
counter-jumper  Kliiberio  could  not  appreciate 
his  obvious  duty  or  was  afraid,  so  much  the 
worse  for  him!  ...  A  cheap  soul,  and  that's 
all  about  it !  ...  As  for  the  conditions  of  the 
duel,  I  am  your  second,  and  your  interests 
are  sacred  to  me !  .  .  .  When  I  lived  in  Padua 
there  was  a  regiment  of  the  white  dragoons 
70 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

stationed  there,  and  I  was  very  intimate  with 
many  of  the  officers  !  .  .  .  I  was  quite  familiar 
with  their  whole  code.  And  I  used  often  to 
converse  on  these  subjects  with  your  principe 
Tarbuski  too.  ...  Is  this  second  to  come  soon  ?  ' 

'  I  am  expecting  him  every  minute — and  here 
he  comes/  added  Sanin,  looking  into  the  street. 

Pantaleone  got  up,  looked  at  his  watch, 
straightened  his  topknot  of  hair,  and  hurriedly 
stuffed  into  his  shoe  an  end  of  tape  which  was 
sticking  out  below  his  trouser-leg,  and  the 
young  sub-lieutenant  came  in,  as  red  and 
embarrassed  as  ever. 

Sanin  presented  the  seconds  to  each  other. 
*  M.  Richter,  sous-lieutenant,  M.  Cippatola, 
artiste  ! '  The  sub-lieutenant  was  slightly  dis- 
concerted by  the  old  man's  appearance  .  .  .  Oh, 
u:hai-u7r>ij](^  b^  ^^.Vfi  '^^'[^  had  any  one  whispered 
tojmn  at  that  instant  "tKal  tFie  *  artist  *  pre- 
senteH'tblnm  was  "also"efrip,|]^ed- in  the  culinary 
art }  BnrPantat6one"'assumed  an  air  as  though 
taking  part  in  the  preliminaries  of  duels  was 
for  him  the  most  everyday  affair :  probably 
he  was  assisted  at- this  juncture  by  the  recollec- 
tions of , his  theatrical  career,^  andTfe  played  the 
part  of  second  simply  aTa"  part.  Both  he  and 
the  sub-lieutenant  were  silent  for  a  little. 

*  Well  ?  Let  us  come  to  business  ! '  Panta- 
leone spoke  first,  playing  with  his  cornelian  seal. 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  By  all  means,'  responded  the  sub-lieutenant, 
'  but  .  .  .  the  presence  of  one  of  the  princi- 
pals .  .  .' 

*  I  will  leave  you  at  once,  gentlemen,'  cried 
Sanin,  and  with  a  bow  he  went  away  into  the 
bedroom  and  closed  the  door  after  him. 

He  flung  himself  on  the  bed  and  began 
thinking  of  Gemma  .  .  .  but  the  conversation 
of  the  seconds  reached  him  through  the  shut 
door.  It  was  conducted  in  the  French  lan- 
guage ;  both  maltreated  it  mercilessly,  each 
after  his  own  fashion.  Pantaleone  again  al- 
luded to  the  dragoons  in  Padua,  and  Principe 
Tarbuski ;  the  sub-lieutenant  to  '  exghizes 
lecheres '  and  '  goiips  de  bistolet  ct  Vaniiaple^ 
But  the  old  man  would  not  even  hear  of  any 
exghizes !  To  Sanin's  horror,  he  suddenly 
proceeded  to  talk  of  a  certain  young  lady,  an 
innocent  maiden,  whose  little  finger  was  worth 
more  than  all  the  officers  in  the  world  .  .  . 
{piine  zeune  damigella  i?i7ioucenta,  qua  elle  sola 
dans  soim  peti  doa  vale  piti  q7ie  tout  le 
zouffissU  del  mondo !),  and  repeated  several 
times  with  heat :  *  It 's  shameful  !  it 's  shame- 
ful ! '  {E  ouna  ofita,  ouna  onta !)  The  sub- 
lieutenant at  first  made  him  no  reply,  but 
presently  an  angry  quiver  could  be  heard  in 
the  young  man's  voice,  and  he  observed  that 
he  had  not  come  there  to  listen  to  sermonising. 
72 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

'At  your  age  it  is  always  a  good  thing  to 
hear  the  truth  ! '  cried  Pantaleone. 

The  debate  between  the  seconds  several  times 
became  stormy  ;  it  lasted  over  an  hour,  and  was 
concluded  at  last  on  the  following  conditions  : 
*  Baron  von  Donhof  and  M.  de  Sanin  to  meet 
the  next  day  at  ten  o'clock  in  a  small  wood  near 
Hanau,  at  the  distance  of  twenty  paces  ;  each 
to  have  the  right  to  fire  twice  at  a  signal  given 
by  the  seconds,  The  pistols  to  be  single-trig- 
gered and  not  rifle-barrelled.'  Herr  von  Richter 
withdrew,  and  Pantaleone  solemnly  opened  the 
bedroom  door,  and  after  communicating  the 
result  of  their  deliberations,  cried  again  :  *  Bravo 
Riisso!    Bravo  giovanotto !    You  will  be  victor!' 

A  few  minutes  later  they  both  set  off  to  the 
Rosellis'  shop.  Sanin,  as  a  preliminary  mea- 
sure, had  exacted  a  promise  from  Pantaleone 
to  keep  the  affair  of  the  duel  a  most  profound 
secret.  In  reply,  the  old  man  had  merely  held 
up  his  finger,  and  half  closing  his  eyes, 
whispered  twice  over,  Segredezza !  He  was 
obviously  in  good  spirits,  and  even  walked  with 
a  freer  step.  All  these  unusual  incidents,  unplea- 
sant though  they  might  be,  carried  him  vividly 
back  to  the  time  when  he  himself  both  received 
and  gave  challenges — only,  it  is  truc,on  the  stage. 
Baritones,  as  we  all  know,  have  a  great  deal  of 
strutting  and  fuming  to  do  in  their  parts. 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


XIX 

Emil  ran  out  to  meet  Sanin — he  had  been 
watching  for  his  arrival  over  an  hour — and 
hurriedly  whispered  into  his  ear  that  his  mother 
knew  nothing  of  the  disagreeable  incident  of 
the  day  before,  that  he  must  not  even  hint  of  it 
to  her,  and  that  he  was  being  sent  to  Kluber's 
shop  again  !  .  .  .  but  that  he  wouldn't  go  there, 
but  would  hide  somewhere !  Communicating 
all  this  information  in  a  few  seconds,  he 
suddenly  fell  on  Sanin's  shoulder,  kissed  him 
impulsively,  and  rushed  away  down  the  street. 
Gemma  met  Sanin  in  the  shop  ;  tried  to  say 
something  and  could  not.  Her  lips  were  tremb- 
ling a  little,  while  her  eyes  were  half-closed  and 
turned  away.  He  made  haste  to  soothe  her  by 
the  assurance  that  the  whole  affair  had  ended 
...  in  utter  nonsense. 

*  Has  no  one  been  to  see  you  to-day  ? '  she 
asked. 

*A  person  did  come  to  me  and  we  had  an 
explanation,  and  we  ...  we  came  to  the  most 
satisfactory  conclusion.' 

Gemma  went  back  behind  the  counter. 

*  She  does  not  believe  me  ! '  he  thought  .  .  . 
he  went  into  the  next  room,  however,  and  there 
found  Frau  Lenore. 

74 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

Her  sick  headache  had  passed  off,  but  she 
was  in  a  depressed  state  of  mind.  She  gave 
him  a  smile  of  welcome,  but  warned  him  at  the 
same  time  that  he  would  be  dull  with  her 
to-day,  as  she  was  not  in  a  mood  to  entertain 
him.  He  sat  down  beside  her,  and  noticed  that 
her  eyelids  were  red  and  swollen. 

'  What  is  wrong,  Frau  Lenore  ?  You  'vc 
never  been  crying,  surely  ?  ' 

'  Oh ! '  she  whispered,  nodding  her  head  to- 
wards the  room  where  her  daughter  was. 
*  Don't  speak  of  it  .  .  .  aloud.' 

*  But  what  have  you  been  crying  for  ? ' 

'  Ah,  M'sieu  Sanin,  I  don't  know  myself 
what  for ! ' 

*  No  one  has  hurt  your  feelings  ? ' 

'  Oh  no  !  ...  I  felt  very  low  all  of  a  sudden. 
I  thought  of  Giovanni  Battista  ...  of  my  youth 
.  .  .  Then  how  quickly  it  had  all  passed  away. 
I  have  grown  old,  my  friend,  and  I  can't  re- 
concile myself  to  that  anyhow.  I  feel  I  'm  just 
the  same  as  I  was  .  .  .  but  old  age — it 's  here  ! 
it  is  here ! '  Tears  came  into  Frau  Lenore's 
eyes.  '  You  look  at  me,  I  see,  and  wonder.  .  .  . 
But  you  will  get  old  too,  my  friend,  and  will 
find  out  how  bitter  it  is  ! ' 

Sanin  tried  to  comfort  her,  spoke  of  her 
children,  in  whom  her  own  youth  lived  again, 
even  attempted  to  scoff  at  her  a  little,  declaring 
75 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

that  she  was  fishing  for  compliments  .  .  .  but 
she  quite  seriously  begged  him  to  leave  off,  and 
for  the  first  time  he  realised  that  for  such^a— 
,  ,sorrow,  the  despondency  of  old  age,  there  is  no 
■  ^^s^  comfort  or  cure;  one  has  to  wait  till  it  passes  off 
of  itself.  He  proposed  a  game  of  tresette,  and 
he  could  have  thought  of  nothing  better.  She  , 
agreed  at  once  and  seemed  to  get  more  cheerful,    j 

Sanin  played  with  her  until  dinner-time  and 
after  dinner  Pantaleone  too  took  a  hand  in 
the  game.  Never  had  his  topknot  hung  so  low 
over  his  forehead,  never  had  his  chin  retreated 
so  far  into  his  cravat !  Every  movement  was 
accompanied  by  such  intense  solemnity  that  as 
one  looked  at  him  the  thought  involuntarily 
arose,  '  What  secret  is  that  man  guarding  with 
such  determination  ?  '  But  segredezza  !  segre- 
dezza  ! 

During  the  whole  of  that  day  he  tried  in 
every  possible  way  to  show  the  profoundest 
respect  for  Sanin ;  at  table,  passing  by  the 
ladies,  he  solemnly  and  sedately  handed  the 
dishes  first  to  him  ;  when  they  were  at  cards  he 
intentionally  gave  him  the  game;  he  announced, 
apropos  of  nothing  at  all,  that  the  Russians 
were  the  most  great-hearted,  brave,  and  re- 
solute people  in  the  world  ! 

'  Ah,  you  old  flatterer  ! '    Sanin  thought  to 

himself. 

76 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

And  he  was  not  so  much  surprised  at  Signora 
Roselli's  unexpected  state  of  mind,  as  at  the 
way  her  daughter  behaved  to  him.  It  was 
not  that  she  avoided  him  ...  on  the  contrary 
she  sat  continually  a  little  distance  from  him, 
listened  to  what  he  said,  and  looked  at  him  ; 
but  she  absolutely  declined  to  get  into  conver- 
sation with  him,  and  directly  he  began  talk- 
ing to  her,  she  softly  rose  from  her  place,  and 
went  out  for  some  instants.  Then  she  came  in 
again,  and  again  seated  herself  in  some  corner, 
and  sat  without  stirring,  seeming  meditative 
and  perplexed  .  .  .  perplexed  above  all.  Frau 
Lenore  herself  noticed  at  last,  that  she  was  not 
as  usual,  and  asked  her  twice  what  was  the  matter. 

'  Nothing,'  answered  Gemma  ;  *  you  know  I 
am  sometimes  like  this.' 

'  That  is  true,'  her  mother  assented. 

So  passed  all  that  long  day,  neither  gaily  nor 
drearily — neither  cheerfully  nor  sadly.  Had 
Gemma  been  different — Sanin  .  .  .  who  knows? 
.  .  .  might  not  perhaps  have  been  able  to  resist 
the  temptation  for  a  little  display — or  he  might 
simply  have  succumbed  to  melancholy  at  the 
possibility  of  a  separation  for  ever.  .  .  .  But  as 
he  did  not  once  succeed  in  getting  a  word  with 
Gemma,  he  was  obliged  to  confine  himself  to 
striking  minor  chords  on  the  piano  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  evening  coffee. 
11 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Emil  came  home  late,  and  to  avoid  questions 
about  Herr  Kliiber,  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  The 
time  came  for  Sanin  too  to  retire. 

He  began  saying  good-bye  to  Gemma.  He 
recollected  for  some  reason  Lensky's  parting 
from  Olga  in  Onze£-m.  'Re  pressed  her  hand 
warmly,  and  tried  to  get  a  look  at  her  face, 
but  she  turned  a  little  away  and  released  her 
fingers. 


XX 

It  was  bright  starlight  when  he  came  out  on 
the  steps.  What  multitudes  of  stars,  big  and 
little,  yellow,  red,  blue  and  white  were  scattered 
over  the  sky!  They  seemed  all  flashing, 
swarming,  twinkling  unceasingly.  There  was 
no  moon  in  the  sky,  but  without  it  every  object 
could  be  clearly  discerned  in  the  half-clear, 
shadowless  twilight.  Sanin  walked  down  the 
street  to  the  end  ...  He  did  not  want  to  go 
home  at  once  ;  he  felt  a  desire  to  wander  about 
a  little  in  the  fresh  air.  He  turned  back  and 
had  hardly  got  on  a  level  with  the  house,  where 
was  the  Rosellis'  shop,  when  one  of  the  windows 
looking  out  on  the  street,  suddenly  creaked  and 
opened  ;  in  its  square  of  blackness — there  was 
no  light  in  the  room — appeared  a  woman's 
78 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

figure,  and  he  heard  his  name  —  'Monsieur 
Dimitri ! ' 

He  rushed  at  once  up  to  the  window  .  .  . 
Gemma  !  She  was  leaning  with  her  elbows  on 
the  window-sill,  bending  forward. 

'  Monsieur  Dimitri,'  she  began  in  a  cautious 
voice, '  I  have  been  wanting  all  day  long  to  give 
you  something  .  .  .  but  I  could  not  make  up 
my  mind  to ;  and  just  now,  seeing  you,  quite 
unexpectedly  again,  I  thought  that  it  seems  it 
is  fated '  .  .  . 

Gemma  was  forced  to  stop  at  this  word.  She 
could  not  go  on ;  something  extraordinary 
happened  at  that  instant. 

All  of  a  sudden,  in  the  midst  of  the  profound 
stillness,  over  the  perfectly  unclouded  sky, 
there  blew  such  a  violent  blast  of  wind,  that 
the  very  earth  seemed  shaking  underfoot,  the 
delicate  starlight  seemed  quivering  and  tremb- 
ling, the  air  went  round  in  a  whirlwind.  The 
wind,  not  cold,  but  hot,  almost  sultry,  smote 
against  the  trees,  the  roof  of  the  house,  its  walls, 
and  the  street ;  it  instantaneously  snatched  off 
Sanin's  hat,  crumpled  up  and  tangled  Gemma's 
curls.  Sanin's  head  was  on  a  level  with  the 
window-sill ;  he  could  not  help  clinging  close  to 
it,  and  Gemma  clutched  hold  of  his  shoulders 
with  both  hands,  and  pressed  her  bosom  against 
his  head.  The  roar,  the  din,  and  the  rattle 
79 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

lasted  about  a  minute,  .  .  .  Like  a  flock  of 
huge  birds  the  revelling  whirlwind  darted  re- 
velling away.  A  profound  stillness  reigned 
once  more. 

Sanin  raised  his  head  and  saw  above  him 
such  an  exquisite,  scared,  excited  face,  such 
immense,  large,  magnificent  eyes — it  was  such 
a  beautiful  creature  he  saw,  that  his  heart  stood 
still  within  him,  he  pressed  his  lips  to  the 
delicate  tress  of  hair,  that  had  fallen  on  his 
bosom,  and  could  only  murmur,  '  O  Gemma  ! ' 

'  What  was  that  ?  Lightning  ?  '  she  asked, 
her  eyes  wandering  afar,  while  she  did  not  take 
her  bare  arms  from  his  shoulder. 

'  Gemma  ! '  repeated  Sanin. 

She  sighed,  looked  around  behind  her  into  the 
room,  and  with  a  rapid  movement  pulling  the 
now  faded  rose  out  of  her  bodice,  she  threw  it 
to  Sanin. 

*  I  wanted  to  give  you  this  flower.' 

He  recognised  the  rose,  which  he  had  won 
back  the  day  before.  .  .  . 

But  already  the  window  had  slammcd-to,  and 
through  the  dark  pane  nothing  could  be  seen, 
no  trace  of  white. 

Sanin  went  home  without  his  hat.  .  .  .  He 
did  not  even  notice  that  he  had  lost  it. 


80 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


XXI 

It  was  quite  morning  when  he  fell  asleep. 
And  no  wonder!  In  the  blast  of  that  instan- 
taneous summer  hurricane,  he  had  almost  as 
instantaneously  felt,  not  that  Gemma  was 
lovely,  not  that  he  liked  her — that  he  had  known 
before  .  .  .  but  that  he  almost  .  .  .  loved  her!  As 
suddenly  as  that  blast  of  wind,  had  love  pounced 
down  upon  him.  And  then  this  senseless 
dueir '  He  began  to  be  tormented  by  mournful 
forebodings.  And  even  suppose  they  didn't  kill 
him.  .  .  .  What  could  come  of  his  love  for  this 
girl,  another  man's  betrothed  ?  Even  supposing 
this  '  other  man '  was  no  danger,  that  Gemma 
herself  would  care  for  him,  or  even  cared  for' 
him  already  .  .  .  What  would  come  of  it? 
How  ask  what  I     Such  a  lovely  creature !  .  .  . 

He  walked  about  the  room,  sat  down  to  the 
table,  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  traced  a  few  lines 
on  it,  and  at  once  blotted  them  out.  .  .  .  He 
recalled  Gemma's  wonderful  figure  in  the  dark 
window,  in  the  starlight,  set  all  a-fluttering  by 
the  warm  hurricane  ;  he  remembered  her  marble 
arms,  like  the  arms  of  the  Olympian  goddesses, 
felt  their  living  weight  on  his  shoulders.  .  .  . 
Then  he  took  the  rose  she  had  thrown  him,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  its  half-withered  petals 
F  8i 


-A' 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

exhaled  a  fragrance  of  her,  more  delicate  than 
the  ordinary  scent  of  the  rose. 

'And  would  they  kill  him  straight  away  or 
maim  him  ? ' 

He  did  not  go  to  bed,  and  fell  asleep  in  his 
clothes  on  the  sofa. 

Some  one  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  .  .  . 
He  opened  his  eyes,  and  saw  Pantaleone. 

'  He  sleeps  like  Alexander  of  Macedon  on 
the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Babylon  ! '  cried  the  old 
man. 

'  What  o'clock  is  it  ? '  inquired  Sanin. 

'  A  quarter  to  seven  ;  it 's  a  two  hours'  drive 
to  Hanau,  and  we  must  be  the  first  on  the 
field.  Russians  are  always  beforehand  with 
their  enemies  !  I  have  engaged  the  best  car- 
riage in  Frankfort ! ' 

Sanin  began  washing.  '  And  where  are  the 
pistols } ' 

'  T\i2X  ferroflucto  Tedesco  will  bring  the  pistols. 
He'll  bring  a  doctor  too.' 

Pantaleone  was  obviously  putting  a  good 
face  on  it  as  he  had  done  the  day  before  ;  but 
when  he  was  seated  in  the  carriage  with  Sanin, 
when  the  coachman  had  cracked  his  whip  and 
the  horses  had  started  off  at  a  gallop,  a  sudden 
change  came  over  the  old  singer  and  friend  of 
Paduan  dragoons.  He  began  to  be  confused 
and  positively  faint-hearted.  Something  seemed 
82 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

to  have  given  way  in  him,  like  a  badly  built 
wall. 

*  What  are  we  doing,  my  God,  Santissima 
Madonna !^  he  cried  in  an  unexpectedly  high 
pipe,  and  he  clutched  at  his  head.  '  What  am 
I  about,  old  fool,  madman,/r£'«^//Vd7? ' 

Sanin  wondered  and  laughed,  and  putting 
his  arm  lightly  round  Pantaleone's  waist,  he 
reminded  him  of  the  French  proverb  :  '  Le  vin 
est  tire — il  faut  le  boire! 

*  Yes,  yes,'  answered  the  old  man,  '  we  will 
drain  the  cup  together  to  the  dregs — but  still 
I  'm  a  madman  !  I  'm  a  madman !  All  was 
going  on  so  quietly,  so  well  .  .  .  and  all  of  a 
sudden  :  ta-ta-ta,  tra-ta-ta  ! ' 

'  Like  the  tiitti  in  the  orchestra,'  observed  Sanin 
with  a  forced  smile.     '  But  it 's  not  your  fault.' 

*  I  know  it 's  not.  I  should  think  not  in- 
deed !  And  yet  .  .  .  such  insolent  conduct ! 
Diavoio,  diavolol'  repeated  Pantaleone,  sighing 
and  shaking  his  topknot. 

The  carriage  still  rolled  on  and  on. 

It  was  an  exquisite  morning.  The  streets 
of  Frankfort,  which  were  just  beginning  to 
show  signs  of  life,  looked  so  clean  and  snug  ; 
the  windows  of  the  houses  glittered  in  flashes 
like  tinfoil ;  and  as  soon  as  the  carriage  had 
driven  beyond  the  city  walls,  from  overhead, 
from  a  blue  but  not  yet  glaring  sky,  the  larks' 
83 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

loud  trills  showered  down  in  floods.  Suddenly 
at  a  turn  in  the  road,  a  familiar  figure  came 
from  behind  a  tall  poplar,  took  a  few  steps 
forward  and  stood  still.  Sanin  looked  more 
closely.  .  .  .  Heavens !  it  was  Emil ! 

'  But  does  he  know  anything  about  it  ? '  he 
demanded  of  Pantaleone. 

*  I  tell  you  I  'm  a  madman,'  the  poor  Italian 
wailed  despairingly,  almost  in  a  shriek.  '  The 
wretched  boy  gave  me  no  peace  all  night,  and 
this  morning  at  last  I  revealed  all  to  him  ! ' 

'  So  much  for  your  segredezza ! '  thought 
Sanin.  The  carriage  had  got  up  to  Emil. 
Sanin  told  the  coachman  to  stop  the  horses, 
and  called  the  *  wretched  boy '  up  to  him. 
Emil  approached  with  hesitating  steps,  pale 
as  he  had  been  on  the  day  he  fainted.  He 
could  scarcely  stand. 

*What  are  you  doing  here?'  Sanin  asked 
him  sternly.    '  Why  aren't  you  at  home  ?  ' 

*Let  ...  let  me  come  with  you,'  faltered 
Emil  in  a  trembling  voice,  and  he  clasped  his 
hands.  His  teeth  were  chattering  as  in  a  fever. 
*  I  won't  get  in  your  way — only  take  me.* 

*  If  you  feel  the  very  slightest  affection  or 
respect  for  me,'  said  Sanin,  '  you  will  go  at 
once  home  or  to  Herr  Kluber's  shop,  and  you 
won't  say  one  word  to  any  one,  and  will  wait 
for  my  return  ! ' 

84 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'  Your  return,'  moaned  Emil — and  his  voice 
quivered  and  broke,  '  but  if  you  're ' 

'  Emil ! '  Sanin  interrupted — and  he  pointed 
to  the  coachman,  *  do  control  yourself!  Emil, 
please,  go  home !  Listen  to  me,  my  dear ! 
You  say  you  love  me.  Well,  I  beg  you  ! '  He 
held  out  his  hand  to  him.  Emil  bent  forward, 
sobbed,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  darting  away 
from  the  road,  ran  back  towards  Frankfort 
across  country. 

'  A  noble  heart  too,'  muttered  Pantaleone  ; 
but  Sanin  glanced  severely  at  him.  .  .  .  The 
old  man  shrank  into  the  corner  of  the  carriage. 
He  was  conscious  of  his  fault ;  and  moreover, 
he  felt  more  and  more  bewildered  every  instant ; 
could  it  really  be  he  who  was  acting  as  second, 
who  had  got  horses,  and  had  made  all  arrange- 
ments, and  had  left  his  peaceful  abode  at  six 
o'clock?  Besides,  his  legs  were  stiff  and 
aching. 

Sanin  thought  it  as  well  to  cheer  him  up, 
and  he  chanced  on  the  very  thing,  he  hit  on  the 
right  word. 

'Where  is  your  old  spirit,  Signor  Cippatola? 
Where  is  il  antico  valor}  ^ 

SignorCippatola  drew  himself  up  and  scowled 
*//  atttico  valor  ? '  he  boomed  in  a  bass  voice. 
*  No?i  e  ancora  spento  (it 's  not  all  lost  yet),  il 
afitico  valor  I  ^ 

85 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

He  put  himself  in  a  dignified  attitude,  began 

talking  of  his  career,  of  the  opera,  of  the  great 

tenor  Garcia — and  arrived  at  Hanau  a  hero. 

After   all,   if    you    think   of  it,    nothing   is 

'^s4/^  stronger  in  the  world  .  .  .  and  weaker — than 

^  a  word ! 

XXII 

The  copse  in  which  the  duel  was  to  take  place ' 
was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Hanau.  Sanin 
and  Pantaleone  arrived  there  first,  as  the  latter 
had  predicted  ;  they  gave  orders  for  the  car- 
riage to  remain  outside  the  wood,  and  they 
plunged  into  the  shade  of  the  rather  thick  and 
close-growing  trees.  They  had  to  wait  about 
an  hour. 

The  time  of  waiting  did  not  seem  particu- 
larly disagreeable  to  Sanin  ;  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  path,  listened  to  the  birds  singing, 
watched  the  dragonflies  in  their  flight,  and 
like  the  majority  of  Russians  in  similar  cir- 
cumstances, tried  not  to  think.  He  only  once 
dropped  into  reflection  ;  he  came  across  a 
young  lime-tree,  broken  down,  in  all  probability 
by  the  squall  of  the  previous  night.  It  was 
unmistakably  dying  ...  all  the  leaves  on  it 
were  dead.  *  What  is  It  ?  an  omen  ? '  was  the 
thought  that  flashed  across  his  mind  ;  but  he 
86 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

promptly  began  whistling,  leaped  over  the  very 
tree,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  path.  As 
for  Pantaleone,  he  was  grumbling,  abusing  the 
Germans,  sighing  and  moaning,  rubbing  first 
his  back  and  then  his  knees.  He  even  yawned 
from  agitation,  which  gave  a  very  comic  ex- 
pression to  his  tiny  shrivelled-up  face.  Sanin 
could  scarcely  help  laughing  when  he  looked 
at  him. 

They  heard,  at  last,  the  rolling  of  wheels 
along  the  soft  road.  '  It 's  they  ! '  said  Panta- 
leone, and  he  was  on  the  alert  and  drew  him- 
self up,  not  without  a  momentary  nervous 
shiver,  which  he  made  haste,  however,  to  cover 
with  the  ejaculation  '  B-r-r! '  and  the  remark  that 
the  morning  was  rather  fresh.  A  heavy  dew 
drenched  the  grass  and  leaves,  but  the  sultry 
heat  penetrated  even  into  the  wood. 

Both  the  officers  quickly  made  their  appear- 
ance under  its  arched  avenues  ;  they  were  ac- 
companied by  a  little  thick-set  man,  with  a 
phlegmatic,  almost  sleepy,  expression  of  face — 
the  army  doctor.  He  carried  in  one  hand  an 
earthenware  pitcher  of  water — to  be  ready  for 
any  emergency ;  a  satchel  with  surgical  in- 
struments and  bandages  hung  on  his  left 
shoulder.  It  was  obvious  that  he  was  thor- 
oughly used  to  such  excursions  ;  they  consti- 
tuted one  of  the  sources  of  his  income ;  each 
87 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

duel  yielded  him  eight  gold  crowns — four  from 
each  of  the  combatants.  Herr  von  Richter 
carried  a  case  of  pistols,  Herr  von  Donhof — 
probably  considering  it  the  thing — was  swing- 
ing in  his  hand  a  little  cane. 

*  Pantaleone ! '  Sanin  whispered  to  the  old 
man;  '  if  .  .  .  if  I 'm  killed  —  anything  may 
happen — take  out  of  my  side  pocket  a  paper 
— there  's  a  flower  wrapped  up  in  it — and  give 
the  paper  to  Signorina  Gemma.  Do  you  hear  ? 
You  promise  ? ' 

The  old  man  looked  dejectedly  at  him,  and 
nodded  his  head  affirmatively.  .  .  .  But  God 
knows  whether  he  understood  what  Sanin  was 
asking  him  to  do. 

The  combatants  and  the  seconds  exchanged 
the  customary  bows  ;  the  doctor  alone  did  not 
move  as  much  as  an  eyelash  ;  he  sat  down 
yawning  on  the  grass,  as  much  as  to  say, 
'  I  'm  not  here  for  expressions  of  chivalrous 
courtesy.'  Herr  von  Richter  proposed  to  Herr 
*  Tshibadola '  that  he  should  select  the  place  ; 
Herr  *  Tshibadola  '  responded,  moving  his 
tongue  with  difficulty — '  the  wall '  within  him 
had  completely  given  way  again.  '  You  act, 
my  dear  sir  ;  I  will  watch.  .  .  . ' 

And  Herr  von  Richter  proceeded  to  act.  He 
picked  out  in  the  wood  close  by  a  very  pretty 
clearing  all  studded  with  flowers  ;  he  measured 
88 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

out  the  steps,and  marked  the  two  extreme  points 
with  sticks,  which  he  cut  and  pointed.  He  took 
the  pistols  out  of  the  case,  and  squatting  on  his 
heels,  he  rammed  in  the  bullets ;  in  short,  he 
fussed  about  and  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost, 
continually  mopping  his  perspiring  brow  with  a 
white  handkerchief.  Pantaleone,  who  accom- 
panied him,  was  more  like  a  man  frozen.  During 
all  these  preparations,  the  two  principals  stood 
at  a  little  distance,  looking  like  two  schoolboys 
who  have  been  punished,  and  are  sulky  with 
their  tutors. 

The  decisive  moment  arrived.  ...  *  Each 
took  his  pistol.  .  .  .' 

But  at  this  point  Herr  von  Richter  observed 
to  Pantaleone  that  it  was  his  duty,  as  the  senior 
second,  according  to  the  rules  of  the  duel,  to 
address  a  final  word  of  advice  and  exhortation 
to  be  reconciled  to  the  combatants,  before 
uttering  the  fatal  '  one  !  two  !  three  ! '  ;  that 
although  this  exhortation  had  no  effect  of  any 
sort  and  was,  as  a  rule,  nothing  but  an  empty 
formality,  still,  by  the  performance  of  this 
formality,  Herr  Cippatola  would  be  rid  of  a 
certain  share  of  responsibility ;  that,  properly 
speaking,  such  an  admonition  formed  the  direct 
duty  of  the  so-called  '  impartial  witness '  {uii- 
partheiischer  Zeiige),  but  since  they  had  no 
such  person  present,  he,  Herr  von  Richter, 
89 


THE  TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

Would  readily  yield  this  privilege  to  his  hon- 
oured colleague.  Pantaleone,  who  had  already 
succeeded  in  obliterating  himself  behind  a  bush, 
so  as  not  to  see  the  offending  officer  at  all,  at 
first  made  out  nothing  at  all  of  Herr  von 
Richter's  speech,  especially,  as  it  had  been 
delivered  through  the  nose,  but  all  of  a  sudden 
he  started,  stepped  hurriedly  forward,  and  con- 
vulsively thumping  at  his  chest,  in  a  hoarse 
voice  wailed  out  in  his  mixed  jargon  \  '  A  ia 
la  la  .  .  .  Che  bestialita !  Deux  zeun  oinines 
coninie  ga  que  si  battono — percJie  ?  Che  diavolo  ? 
Andata  a  casa  ! ' 

'  I  will  not  consent  to  a  reconciliation,'  Sanin 
intervened  hurriedly. 

*  And  I  too  will  not,'  his  opponent  repeated 
alter  him. 

'  Well,  then  shout  one,  two,  three  ! '  von 
Richter  said,  addressing  the  distracted  Panta- 
leone. 

The  latter  promptly  ducked  behind  the  bush 
again,  and  from  there,  all  huddled  together,  his 
eyes  screwed  up,  and  his  head  turned  away,  he 
shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice:  'l]7ia  .  .  . 
due  .  .  .  Ire  /' 

The  first  shot  was  Sanin's,  and  he  missed. 
His  bullet  went  ping  against  a  tree.       Baron 
von    Donhof  shot   directly   after  him  —  inten- 
tionally, to  one  side,  into  the  air. 
90 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

A  constrained  silence  followed.  .  .  .  No  one 
moved.     Pantaleone  uttered  a  faint  moan. 
'  Is  it  your  wish  to  go  on  ? '  said  Donhof. 

*  Why  did  you  shoot  in  the  air  ? '  inquired 
Sanin. 

'  That 's  nothing  to  do  with  you.' 

*  Will  you  shoot  in  the  air  the  second  time  ? ' 
Sanin  asked  again. 

'  Possibly  :  I  don't  know.' 

'Excuse  me,  excuse  me,  gentlemen  .  .  .' 
began  von  Richter  ;  '  duellists  have  not  the 
right  to  talk  together.     That 's  out  of  order.' 

'  I  decline  my  shot,'  said  Sanin,  and  he  threw 
his  pistol  on  the  ground. 

'  And  I  too  do  not  intend  to  go  on  with  the 
duel,'  cried  Donhof,  and  he  too  threw  his  pistol 
on  the  ground.  '  And  more  than  that,  I  am 
prepared  to  own  that  I  was  in  the  wrong — the 
day  before  yesterday.' 

He  moved  uneasily,  and  hesitatingly  held 
out  his  hand.  Sanin  went  rapidly  up  to  him 
and  shook  it.  Both  the  young  men  looked  at 
each  other  with  a  smile,  and  both  their  faces 
flushed  crimson. 

^Bravi!  bravi!'  Pantaleone  roared  suddenly 
as  if  he  had  gone  mad,  and  clapping  his  hands, 
he  rushed  like  a  whirlwind  from  behind  the 
bush ;  while  the  doctor,  who  had  been  sitting 
on  one  side  on  a  felled  tree,  promptly  rose, 
9^ 


nff*'^  doc 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

poured  the  water  out  of  the  jug  and  walked 
off  with  a  lazy,  rolling  step  out  of  the  wood. 

'Honour  is  satisfied,  and  the  duel  is  over!' 
von  Richter  announced. 

^Fuori!^  Pantaleone  boomed  once  more, 
through  old  associations. 

When  he  had  exchanged  bows  with  the 
officers,  and  taken  his  seat  in  the  carriage, 
Sanin  certainly  felt  all  over  him,  if  not  a  sense 
of  pleasure,  at  least  a  certain  lightness  of  heart, 
as  after  an  operation  is  over ;  but  there  was 
another  feeling  astir  within  him  too,  a  feeling 
akin  to  shame.  .  .  .  The  duel,  in  which  he  had 
just  played  his  part,  struck  him  as  something, 
false,  a  got-up  formality,  a  common  officers' 
students'  farce.  He  recalled  the  phlegmatic 
doctor,  he  recalled  how  he  had  grinned,  that 
is,  wrinkled  up  his  nose,when  he  saw  him  coming 
out  of  the  wood  almost  arm-in-arm  with  Baron 
Donhof.  And  afterwards  when  Pantaleone  had 
paid  him  the  four  crowns  due  to  him  .  .  .  Ah  ! 
there  was  something  nasty  about  it ! 

Yes,  Sanin  was  a  little  conscience-smitten 
and  ashamed  .  .  .  though,  on  the  other  hand, 
what  was  there  for  him  to  have  done  ?  Could 
he  have  left  the  young  officer's  insolence  un- 
rebuked  ?  could  he  have  behaved  like  Herr 
Kliiber  ?  He  had  stood  up  for  Gemma,  he 
92 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

had  championed  her  .  .  .  that  was  so ;  and 
yet,  there  was  an  uneasy  pang  in  his  heartl 
and  he  was  conscience  -  smitten,  and  even 
ashamed. 

Not  so  Pantaleone — he  was  simply  in  his 
glory  !  He  was  suddenly  possessed  by  a  feel- 
ing of  pride.  A  victorious  general,  returning 
from  the  field  of  battle  he  has  won,  could  not 
have  looked  about  him  with  greater  self-satis- 
faction. Sanin's  demeanour  during  the  duel 
filled  him  with  enthusiasm.  He  called  him 
a  hero,  and  would  not  listen  to  his  exhortations 
and  even  his  entreaties.  He  compared  him  to 
a  monument  of  marble  or  of  bronze,  with  the 
statue  of  the  commander  in  Don  Juan  !  For 
himself  he  admitted  he  had  been  conscious 
of  some  perturbation  of  mind,  'but,  of  course,  I 
am  an  artist,'  he  observed ;  *  I  have  a  highly- 
strung  nature,  while  you  are  the  son  of  the 
snows  and  the  granite  rocks.' 

Sanin  was  positively  at  a  loss  how  to  quiet 
the  jubilant  artist. 

Almost  at  the  same  place  in  the  road  where 
two  hours  before  they  had  come  upon  Emil,  he 
again  jumped  out  from  behind  a  tree,  and,  with 
a  cry  of  joy  upon  his  lips,  waving  his  cap  and 
leaping  into  the  air,  he  rushed  straight  at  the 
carriage,  almost  fell  under  the  wheel,  and,  with- 
93 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

out  waiting  for  the  horses  to  stop,  clambered 
up  over  the  carriage-door  and  fairly  clung  to 
Sanin. 

'  You  are  alive,  you  are  not  wounded ! '  he 
kept  repeating.  *  Forgive  me,  I  did  not  obey 
you,  I  did  not  go  back  to  Frankfort  ...  I 
could  not !  I  waited  for  you  here  .  .  .  Tell 
me  how  was  it  ?     You  .  .  .  killed  him  ?  ' 

Sanin  with  some  difficulty  pacified  Emil  and 
made  him  sit  down. 

With  great  verbosity,  with  evident  pleasure, 
Pantaleone  communicated  to  him  all  the  details 
of  the  duel,  and,  of  course,  did  not  omit  to  refer 
again  to  the  monument  of  bronze  and  the  statue 
of  the  commander.  He  even  rose  from  his  seat 
and,  standing  with  his  feet  wide  apart  to  pre- 
serve his  equilibrium,  folding  his  arm  on  his 
chest  and  looking  contemptuously  over  his 
shoulder,  gave  an  ocular  representation  of  the 
commander — Sanin  !  Emil  listened  with  awe, 
occasionally  interrupting  the  narrative  with  an 
exclamation,  or  swiftly  getting  up  and  as  swiftly 
kissing  his  heroic  friend. 

The  carriage  wheels  rumbled  over  the  paved 
roads  of  Frankfort,  and  stopped  at  last  before 
the  hotel  where  Sanin  was  living. 

Escorted  by  his  two  companions,  he  went  up 
the  stairs,  when  suddenly  a  woman  came  with 
hurried  steps  out  of  the  dark  corridor  ;  her  face 
94 


THE  TORRENTS   OF  SPRING 

was  hidden  by  a  veil,  she  stood  still,  facing 
Sanin,  wavered  a  little,  gave  a  trembling  sigh, 
at  once  ran  down  into  the  street  and  vanished, 
to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  waiter,  who 
explained  that  '  that  lady  had  been  for  over 
an  hour  waiting  for  the  return  of  the  foreign 
gentleman.'  Momentary  as  was  the  appari- 
tion, Sanin  recognised  Gemma.  He  recognised 
her  eyes  under  the  thick  silk  of  her  brown 
veil. 

'  Did  Fraulein  Gemma  know,  then  .^ '  .  .  .  he 
said  slowly  in  a  displeased  voice  in  German, 
addressing  Emil  and  Pantaleone,  who  were 
following  close  on  his  heels. 

Emil  blushed  and  was  confused. 

'  I  was  obliged  to  tell  her  all,'  he  faltered  ; 
'  she  guessed,  and  I  could  not  help  it.  ,  .  .  But 
now  that's  of  no  consequence,'  he  hurried 
to  add  eagerly,  '  everything  has  ended  so 
splendidly,  and  she  has  seen  you  well  and 
uninjured  1 ' 

Sanin  turned  away. 

*  What  a  couple  of  chatterboxes  you  are  ! '  he 
observed  in  a  tone  of  annoyance,  as  he  went 
into  his  room  and  sat  down  on  a  chair. 

'Don't  be  angry,  please,'  Emil  implored. 

'Very  well,  I  won't  be  angry' — (Sanin  was 
not,  in  fact,  angry — and,  after  all,  he  could 
hardly  have  desired  that  Gemma  should  know 
95 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

nothing  about  it).  'Very  well  .  .  .  that's 
enough  embracing.  You  get  along  now.  I 
want  to  be  alone.  I  'm  going  to  sleep.  I  'm 
tired.' 

'An excellent  idea!'  cried  Pantaleone.  'You 
need  repose !  You  have  fully  earned  it,  noble 
signor  !  Come  along,  Emilio  !  On  tip-toe  ! 
On  tip-toe  !     Sh— sh— sh  ! ' 

When  he  said  he  wanted  to  go  to  sleep,  Sanin 
had  simply  wished  to  get  rid  of  his  companions ; 
but  when  he  was  left  alone,  he  was  really  aware 
of  considerable  weariness  in  all  his  limbs  ;  he 
had  hardly  closed  his  eyes  all  the  preceding 
night,  and  throwing  himself  on  his  bed  he  fell 
immediately  into  a  sound  sleep. 


XXIII 

He  slept  for  some  hours  without  waking.  Then 
he  began  to  dream  that  he  was  once  more  fight- 
ing a  duel,  that  the  antagonist  standing  facing 
him  was  Herr  Kliibcr,  and  on  a  fir-tree  was 
sitting  a  parrot,  and  this  parrot  was  Pantaleone, 
and  he  kept  tapping  with  his  beak  :  one,  one, 
one  ! 

'  One  .  .  .  one  .  .  .  one ! '  he  heard  the  tap- 
ping too  distinctly  ;  he  opened  his  eyes,  raised 
96 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING     n- - 

his  head  .  .  .  some  one  was  knocking  at  his 
door. 

'  Come  in  ! '  called  Sanin. 

The  waiter  came  in  and  answered  that  a  lady 
very  particularly  wished  to  see  him. 

*  Gemma ! '  flashed  into  his  head  .  .  .  but 
the  lady  turned  out  to  be  her  mother,  Frau 
Lenore. 

Directly  she  came  in,  she  dropped  at  once 
into  a  chair  and  began  to  cry. 

'  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear,  good  Madame 
Roselli  ? '  began  Sanin,  sitting  beside  her  and 
softly  touching  her  hand.  *  What  has  hap- 
pened ?  calm  yourself,  I  entreat  you,' 

'  Ah,  Herr  Dimitri,  I  am  very  .  .  .  very 
miserable ! ' 

'  You  are  miserable  ? ' 

'  Ah,  very  !  Could  I  have  foreseen  such  a 
thing  ?  All  of  a  sudden,  like  thunder  from 
a  clear  sky  .  .  .' 

She  caught  her  breath. 

'But  what  is  it?  Explain!  Would  you  like 
a  glass  of  water  ? ' 

'  No,  thank  you.'  Frau  Lenore  wiped  her 
eyes  with  her  handkerchief  and  began  to  cry 
with  renewed  energy.  '  I  know  all,  you  see ! 
All!' 

*  All  ?  that  is  to  say  ? ' 

*  Everything  that  took  place  to-day  !     And 
G  97 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

the  cause  ...  I  know  that  too  !  You  acted 
like  an  honourable  man;  but  what  an  unfor- 
tunate combination  of  circumstances  !  I  was 
quite  right  in  not  liking  that  excursion  to 
Soden  .  .  .  quite  right ! '  (Frau  Lenore  had 
said  nothing  of  the  sort  on  the  day  of  the 
excursion,  but  she  was  convinced  now  that  she 
had  foreseen  *  all '  even  then.)  '  I  have  come 
to  you  as  to  an  honourable  man,  as  to  a  friend, 
though  I  only  saw  you  for  the  first  time  five 
days  ago.  .  .  .  But  you  know  I  am  a  widow,  a 
lonely  woman.  .  .  .  My  daughter  .  .  .' 

Tears  choked  Frau  Lenore's  voice.  Sanin 
did  not  know  what  to  think.  *  Your  daughter  ? ' 
he  repeated. 

'  My  daughter.  Gemma,'  broke  almost  with  a 
groan  from  Frau  Lenore,  behind  the  tear-soaked 
handkerchief,  '  informed  me  to-day  that  she 
would  not  marry  Herr  Kliiber,  and  that  I  must 
refuse  him  ! ' 

Sanin  positively  started  back  a  little  ;  he  had 
not  expected  that. 

*  I  won't  say  anything  now,'  Frau  Lenore 
went  on,  *  of  the  disgrace  of  it,  of  its  being  some- 
thing unheard  of  in  the  world  for  a  girl  to  jilt  her 
betrothed;  but  you  see  it's  ruin  for  us,  Ilerr 
Dimitri ! '  Frau  Lenore  slowly  and  carefully 
twisted  up  her  handkerchief  in  a  tiny,  tiny  little 
ball,  as  though  she  would  enclose  all  her  grief 
98 


THE   TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

within  it.  '  We  can't  go  on  living  on  the  takings 
of  our  shop,  Herr  Dimitri !  and  Herr  Kliiber  is 
very  rich,  and  will  be  richer  still.  And  what 
is  he  to  be  refused  for?  Because  he  did  not 
defend  his  betrothed  ?  Allowing  that  was  not 
very  handsome  on  his  part,  still,  he's  a  civilian, 
has  not  had  a  university  education,  and  as  a 
solid  business  man,  it  was  for  him  to  look  with 
contempt  on  the  frivolous  prank  of  some  un- 
known little  officer.  And  what  sort  of  insult 
was  it,  after  all,  Herr  Dimitri  ? ' 

'  Excuse  me,  Frau  Lenore,  you  seem  to  be 
blaming  me.' 

*  I  am  not  blaming  you  in  the  least,  not  in 
the  least !  You  're  quite  another  matter ;  you 
are,  like  all  Russians,  a  military  man  .  .  .' 

*  Excuse  me,  I  'm  not  at  all  .  .  .' 

*  You  're  a  foreigner,  a  visitor,  and  I  'm  grate- 
ful to  you,'  Frau  Lenore  went  on,  not  heeding 
Sanin.  She  sighed,  waved  her  hands,  unwound 
her  handkerchief  again,  and  blew  her  nose. 
Simply  from  the  way  in  which  her  distress 
expressed  itself,  it  could  be  seen  that  she  had 
not  been  born  under  a  northern  sky. 

'And  how  is  Herr  Kliiber  to  look  after  his 
shop,  if  he  is  to  fight  with  his  customers  ?  It 's 
utterly  inconsistent !  And  now  I  am  to  send 
him  away  !  But  what  are  we  going  to  live  on  ? 
At  one  time  we  were  the  only  people  that  made 
99 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

angel  cakes,  and  nougat  of  pistachio  nuts,  and  we 
had  plenty  of  customers  ;  but  now  all  the  shops 
make  angel  cakes  !  Only  consider  ;  even  with- 
out this,  they  '11  talk  in  the  town  about  your 
duel  ...  it's  impossible  to  keep  it  secret. 
And  all  of  a  sudden,  the  marriage  broken  off! 
It  will  be  a  scandal,  a  scandal  !  Gemma  is  a 
splendid  girl,  she  loves  me  ;  but  she  's  an 
obstinate  republican,  she  doesn't  care  for  the 
opinion  of  others.  You  're  the  only  person 
that  can  persuade  her  ! ' 

Sanin  was  more  amazed  than  ever.    *  I,  Frau 
/  Lenore  ? ' 

;       '  Yes,  you  alone  .  .  .  you  alone.   That 's  why 

I     I   I  have  come  to  you  ;  I  could  not  think  of  any- 

*^     \  thing  else  to  do  !     You  are  so  clever,  so  good  ! 

'\  You  have  fought  in  her  defence.    She  will  trust 

^      .  you !     She  is  bound  to  trust  you — why,  you 

Js^    Uiave  risked  your  life  on  her  account  !     You 

'I         Will  make  her  understand,  for  I  can  do  nothing 

more ;  you  make  her  understand  that  she  will 

bring  ruin  on  herself  and  all  of  us.     You  saved 

my  son — save  my  daughter  too  !    God  Himself 

sent  you  here  ...   I  am  ready  on  my  knees  to 

beseech  you.  .  .  .'     And  Frau  Lenore  half  rose 

from  her  seat  as  though  about  to  fall  at  Sanin's 

feet.  .  .  .  He  restrained  her. 

'  Frau   Lenore  !     For  mercy's   sake  !     What 
are  you  doing?' 

lOO 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

She  clutched  his  hand  impulsively.  'You 
promise  .  .  .' 

'  Frau  Lenore,  think  a  moment ;  what  right 
have  I  .  .  .' 

'  You  promise  ?  You  don't  want  me  to  die 
here  at  once  before  your  eyes  ? ' 

Sanin  was  utterly  nonplussed.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  had  had  Jo,  deal  with 
any  one  of  ardent  Tfalian- blood. 

'  I  will  do  whatever  you  like,'  he  cried.  '  I 
will  talk  to  Fraulein  Gemma.  .  .  .' 

Frau  Lenore  uttered  a  cry  of  delight. 

'  Only  I  really  can't  say  what  result  will  come 
of  it  .  .  .' 

'  Ah,  don't  go  back,  don't  go  back  from  your 
words ! '  cried  Frau  Lenore  in  an  imploring 
voice  ;  *  you  have  already  consented  !  The 
result  is  certain  to  be  excellent.  Any, way,  / 
can  do  nothing  more !  She  won't  listen  to 
me  \ ' 

'  Has  she  so  positively  stated  her  disinclina- 
tion to  marry  Herr  Kluber  ? '  Sanin  inquired 
after  a  short  silence. 

'  As  if  she  'd  cut  the  knot  with  a  knife  ! 
She's  her  father  all  over,  Giovanni  Battista ! 
Wilful  girl ! ' 

'Wilful?     Is  she!'  .  .  .  Sanin  said  slowly. 

'  Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  but  she  's  an  angel  too. 
She  will   mind  you.     Are  you  coming  soon? 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Oh,  my  dear  Russian  friend  ! '  Frau  Lenore  rose 
impulsively  from  her  chair,  and  as  impulsively 
clasped  the  head  of  Sanin,  who  was  sitting 
opposite  her.  *  Accept  a  mother's  blessing — 
and  give  me  some  water  ! ' 

Sanin  brought  Signora  Roselli  a  glass  of 
water,  gave  her  his  word  of  honour  that  he 
would  come  directly,  escorted  her  down  the 
stairs  to  the  street,  and  when  he  was  back  in 
his  own  room,  positively  threw  up  his  arms  and 
opened  his  eyes  wide  in  his  amazement. 

'Well,'  he  thought,  'well,  7iow  life  is  going 
round  in  a  whirl !  And  it 's  whirling  so  that 
I  'm  giddy.'  He  did  not  attempt  to  look 
within,  to  realise  what  was  going  on  in  himself: 
it  was  all  uproar  and  confusion,  and  that  was 
all  he  knew  !  What  a  day  it  had  been  !  His 
lips  murmured  unconsciously:  'Wilful  .  .  .  her 
mother  says  .  .  .  and  I  have  got  to  advise  her 
.  .  .  her  !     And  advise  her  what  ? ' 

Sanin,  really,  was  giddy,  and  above  all  this 
whirl  of  shifting  sensations  and  impressions 
and  unfinished  thoughts,  there  floated  con- 
tinually the  image  of  Gemma,  the  image  so 
ineffaccably  impressed  on  his  memory  on  that 
hot  night,  quivering  with  electricity,  in  that 
dark  window,  in  the  light  of  the  swarming 
stars ! 


102 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


XXIV 

With  hesitating  footsteps  Sanin  approached 
the  house  of  Signora  Roselh'.  His  heart  was 
beating  violently  ;  he  distinctly  felt,  and  even 
heard  it  thumping  at  his  side.  What  should 
he  say  to  Gemma,  how  should  he  begin  ?  He 
went  into  the  house,  not  through  the  shop,  but 
by  the  back  entrance.  In  the  little  outer  room 
he  met  Frau  Lenore.  She  was  both  relieved 
and  scared  at  the  sight  of  him. 

'  I  have  been  expecting  you,'  she  said  in  a 
whisper,  squeezing  his  hand  with  each  of  hers 
in  turn.  '  Go  into  the  garden  ;  she  is  there. 
Mind,  I  rely  on  you  ! ' 

Sanin  went  into  the  garden. 

Gemma  was  sitting  on  a  garden-seat  near  the 
path,  she  was  sorting  a  big  basket  full  of 
cherries,  picking  out  the  ripest,  and  putting 
them  on  a  dish.  The  sun  was  low — it  was 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening — and  there  was 
more  purple  than  gold  in  the  full  slanting  light 
with  which  it  flooded  the  whole  of  Signora 
Roselli's  little  garden.  From  time  to  time, 
faintly  audibly,  and  as  it  were  deliberately,  the 
leaves  rustled,  and  belated  bees  buzzed  abruptly 
as  they  flew  from  one  flower  to  the  next,  and 
103 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

somewhere  a  dove  was  cooing  a  never-changing, 
unceasing  note.  Gemma  had  on  the  same 
round  hat  in  which  she  had  driven  to  Soden. 
She  peeped  at  Sanin  from  under  its  turned- 
down  brim,  and  again  bent  over  the  basket. 

Sanin  went  up  to  Gemma,  unconsciously- 
making  each  step  shorter,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
and  nothing  better  could  he  find  to  say  to  her 
than  to  ask  why  was  she  sorting  the  cherries. 

Gemma  was  in  no  haste  to  reply. 

'  These  are  riper,'  she  observed  at  last,  '  they 
will  go  into  jam,  and  those  are  for  tarts.  You 
know  the  round  sweet  tarts  we  sell  ? ' 

As  she  said  those  words,  Gemma  bent  her 
head  still  lower,  and  her  right  hand  with  two 
cherries  in  her  fingers  was  suspended  in  the  air 
between  the  basket  and  the  dish, 

*  May  I  sit  by  you  ? '  asked  Sanin. 

'  Yes.'  Gemma  moved  a  little  along  on  the 
seat.  Sanin  placed  himself  beside  her.  *  How 
am  I  to  begin  ? '  was  his  thought.  But  Gemma 
got  him  out  of  his  difficulty. 

*You  have  fought  a  duel  to-day,'  she  began 
eagerly,  and  she  turned  all  her  lovely,  bash- 
fully flushing  face  to  him — and  what  depths  of 
gratitude  were  shining  in  those  eyes !  *  And 
you  are  so  calm  !  I  suppose  for  you  danger 
does  not  exist  ? ' 

*  Oh,  come  !     I    have  not  been  exposed  to 

104 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

any  danger.  Everything  went  off  very  satis- 
factorily and  inoffensively.' 

Gemma  passed  her  finger  to  right  and  to  left 
before  her  eyes.  .  .  .  Also  an  Italian  gesture. 
*  No  !  no  !  don't  say  that !  You  won't  deceive 
me  !     Pantaleone  has  told  me  everything  ! ' 

'  He  's  a  trustworthy  witness  !  Did  he  com- 
pare me  to  the  statue  of  the  commander?  ' 

'  His  expressions  may  be  ridiculous,  but  his 
feeling  is  not  ridiculous,  nor  is  what  you  have 
done  to-day.  And  all  that  on  my  account  .  .  . 
for  me  ...  I  shall  never  forget  it.' 

*  I  assure  you,  Fraulein  Gemma  .  .  .' 

*  I  shall  never  forget  it,'  she  said  deliberately  ; 
once  more  she  looked  intently  at  him,  and 
turned  away. 

He  could  now  see  her  delicate  pure  profile, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it,  and  had  never  known  any- 
thing like  what  he  was  feeling  at  that  instant. 
His  soul  was  on  fire. 

*  And  my  promise ! '  flashed  in  among  his 
thoughts. 

'  Fraulein  Gemma  .  .  . '  he  began  after  a 
momentary  hesitation. 

'  What  ? ' 

She  did  not  turn  to  him,  she  went  on  sorting 
the  cherries,  carefully  taking  them  by  their 
stalks  with  her  finger-tips,  assiduously  picking 
105 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

out  the  leaves.  .  .  .  But  what  a  confiding 
caress  could  be  heard  in  that  one  word, 
'What?' 

*  Has  your  mother  said  nothing  to  you 
.  .  .  about  .  .  .' 

'About?' 

*  About  me?' 

Gemma  suddenly  flung  back  into  the  basket 
the  cherries  she  had  taken. 

'  Has  she  been  talking  to  you  ? '  she  asked  in 
her  turn. 

'  Yes.' 

*  What  has  she  been  saying  to  you  ? ' 

'She  told  me  that  you  .  .  .  that  you  have 
suddenly  decided  to  change  .  .  .  your  former 
intention.'  Gemma's  head  was  bent  again. 
She  vanished  altogether  under  her  hat ;  nothing 
could  be  seen  but  her  neck,  supple  and  tender 
as  the  stalk  of  a  big  flower. 

'What  intentions?  ' 

'Your  intentions  .  .  .  relative  to  .  .  .  the 
future  arrangement  of  your  life.' 

'  That  is  .  .  .  you  are  speaking  ...  of  Herr 
Kluber?' 

'Yes.' 

'  Mamma  told  you  I  don't  want  to  be  Herr 
Kliiber's  wife  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

Gemma  moved  forward  on  the  seat.  The 
1 06 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SP  UNG 

basket  tottered,  fell  ...  a  few  cherries  rolled  on 
to  the  path.     A  minute  passed  by  .  .  .  another. 

*  Why  did  she  tell  you  so  ? '  he  heard  her 
voice  saying.  Sanin  as  before  could  only  see 
Gemma's  neck.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  more 
rapidly  than  before. 

*  Why  ?  Your  mother  thought  that  as  you 
and  I,  in  a  short  time,  have  become,  so  to  say, 
friends,  and  you  have  some  confidence  in  me, 
I  am  in  a  position  to  give  you  good  advice — 
and  you  would  mind  what  I  say.' 

Gemma's  hands  slowly  slid  on  to  her  knees. 
She  began  plucking  at  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

'What  advice  will  you  give  me,  Monsieur 
Dimitri  ?  '  she  asked,  after  a  short  pause. 

Sanin  saw  that  Gemma's  fingers  were 
trembling  on  her  knees.  .  .  .  She  was  only 
plucking  at  the  folds  of  her  dress  to  hide  their 
trembling.  He  softly  laid  his  hand  on  those 
pale,  shaking  fingers. 

'  Gemma,'  he  said,  '  why  don't  you  look  at 
me?'  She  instantly  tossed  her  hat  back  on  to 
her  shoulder,  and  bent  her  eyes  upon  him,  con- 
fiding and  grateful  as  before.  She  waited  for 
him  to  speak.  .  .  .  But  the  sight  of  her  face 
had  bewildered,  and,  as  it  were,  dazed  him.  The 
warm  glow  of  the  evening  sun  lighted  up  her 
youthful  head,  and  the  expression  of  that  head 
was  brighter,  more  radiant  than  its  glow. 
107 


THEi  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'  I  will  mind  what  you  say,  Monsieur 
Dimitri,'  she  said,  faintly  smiling,  and  faintly 
arching  her  brows ;  '  but  what  advice  do  you 
give  me  ? ' 

'  What  advice  ?  '  repeated  Sanin.  *  Well,  you 
see,  your  mother  considers  that  to  dismiss 
Herr  Kliiber  simply  because  he  did  not  show 
any  special  courage  the  day  before  yester- 
day .  .  .' 

'Simply  because?'  said  Gemma.  She  bent 
down,  picked  up  the  basket,  and  set  it  beside 
her  on  the  garden  seat. 

*  That  .  .  .  altogether  ...  to  dismiss  him, 
would  be,  on  your  part  .  .  .  unreasonable ; 
that  it  is  a  step,  all  the  consequences  of 
which  ought  to  be  thoroughly  weighed  ;  that 
in  fact  the  very  position  of  your  affairs  imposes 
,.  certain  obligations  on  every  member  of  your 
/    family  .  .  .* 

/         '  All  that  is  mamma's  opinion,'  Gemma  inter- 
\    posed  ;  *  those  are  her  words  ;  but  what  is  your 
\ppinion  ?  ' 

■  '  Mine  ? '  Sanin  was  silent  for  a  while.  He 
felt  a  lump  rising  in  his  throat  and  catching  at 
his  breath.  '  I  too  consider,'  he  began  with  an 
effort  .  .  . 

Gemma  drew  herself  up.   '  Too  ?    You  too  ? ' 
'Yes  .  .  .  that    is  .  .  .'  Sanin    was    unable, 
positively  unable  to  add  a  single  word  more. 
io8 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'Very  well,'  said  Gemma.  'If  you,  as  a 
friend,  advise  me  to  change  my  decision — 
that  is,  not  to  change  my  former  decision — I 
will  think  it  over.'  Not  knowing  what  she  was 
doing,  she  began  to  tip  the  cherries  back  from 
the  plate  into  the  basket.  .  .  .  '  Mamma  hopes 
that  I  will  mind  what  you  say.  Well  .  .  . 
perhaps  I  really  will  mind  what  you  say.' 

'  But  excuse  me,  Fraulein  Gemma,  I  should 
like  first  to  know  what  reason  impelled 
you  .  .  .' 

*  I  will  mind  what  you  say,'  Gemma  repeated, 
her  face  right  up  to  her  brows  was  working,  her 
cheeks  were  white,  she  was  biting  her  lower 
lip.  'You  have  done  so  much  for  me,  that  I 
am  bound  to  do  as  you  wish ;  bound  to  carry 
out  your  wishes.  I  will  tell  mamma  ...  I  will 
think  again.  Here  she  is,  by  the  way,  coming 
here.' 

Frau  Lenore  did  in  fact  appear  in  the  door- 
way leading  from  the  house  to  the  garden. 
She  was  in  an  agony  of  impatience  ;  she  could 
not  keep  still.  According  to  her  calculations, 
Sanin  must  long  ago  have  finished  all  he  had 
to  say  to  Gemma,  though  his  conversation  with 
her  had  not  lasted  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

'  No,  no,  no,  for  God's  sake,  don't  tell  her 
anything  yet,'  Sanin  articulated  hurriedly, 
almost  in  alarm.  '  Wait  a  little  ...  I  will  tell 
109 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

you,    1    will    write   to   you  .  .  .  and    till    then 
don't  decide  on  anything  .  .  .  wait ! ' 

He  pressed  Gemma's  hand,  jumped  up 
from  the  seat,  and  to  Frau  Lenore's  great 
amazement,  rushed  past  her,  and  raising  his 
hat,  muttered  something  unintelligible  —  and 
vanished. 

She  went  up  to  her  daughter. 

'  Tell  me,  please.  Gemma  .  .  .' 

The  latter  suddenly  got  up  and  hugged  her. 
...  '  Dear  mamma,  can  you  wait  a  little,  a 
tiny  bit  .  .  .  till  to-morrow  ?  Can  you  ^  And 
till  to-morrow  not  a  word  ?  .  .  .  Ah !  .  .  .' 

She  burst  into  sudden  happy  tears,  incompre- 
hensible to  herself.  This  surprised  Frau  Lenore, 
the  more  as  the  expression  of  Gemma's  face 
was  far  from  sorrowful, — rather  joyful  in  fact. 

'  What  is  it  ? '  she  asked.  '  You  never  cry 
.  .  .  and  here,  all  at  once  .  .  .' 

*  Nothing,  mamma,  never  mind!  you  only 
wait.  We  must  both  wait  a  little.  Don't  ask 
me  anything  till  to-morrow — and  let  us  sort 
the  cherries  before  the  sun  has  set' 

'But  you  will  be  reasonable?' 

'  Oh,  I  'm  very  reasonable  ! '  Gemma  shook 
her  head  significantly.  She  began  to  make  up 
little  bunches  of  cherries,  holding  them  high 
above  her  flushed  face.  She  did  not  wipe 
away  her  tears  ;  they  had  dried  of  themselves, 
no  • 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


XXV 

Almost  running,  Sanin  returned  to  his  hotel 
room.  He  felt,  he  knew  that  only  there,  only 
by  himself,  would  it  be  clear  to  him  at  last 
what  was  the  matter,  what  was  happening  to 
him.  And  so  it  was ;  directly  he  had  got  in- 
side his  room,  directly  he  had  sat  down  to  the 
writing-table,  with  both  elbows  on  the  table 
and  both  hands  pressed  to  his  face,  he  cried 
in  a  sad  and  choked  voice,  '  I  love  her,  love 
her  madly ! '  and  he  was  all  aglow  within, 
like  a  fire  when  a  thick  layer  of  dead  ash  has 
been  suddenly  blown  off.  An  instant  more 
.  .  .  and  he  was  utterly  unable  to  understand 
how  he  could  have  sat  beside  her  .  .  .  her  ! — 
and  talked  to  her  and  not  have  felt  that  he 
worshipped  the  very  hem  of  her  garment,  that 
he  was  ready  as  young  people  express  it  '  to 
die  at  her  feet.'  The  last  interview  in  the 
garden  had  decided  everything.  Now  when 
he  thought  of  her,  she  did  not  appear  to  him 
with  blazing  curls  in  the  shining  starlight  ; 
he  saw  her  sitting  on  the  garden-seat,  saw  her 
all  at  once  tossing  back  her  hat,  and  gazing 
at  him  so  confidingly  .  .  .  and  the  tremor 
and  hunger  of  love  ran  through  all  his 
III 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

veins.  He  remembered  the  rose  which  he  had 
been  carrying  about  in  his  pocket  for  three 
days :  he  snatched  it  out,  and  pressed  it  with 
such  feverish  violence  to  his  lips,  that  he  could 
not  help  frowning  with  the  pain.  Now  he 
considered  nothing,  reflected  on  nothing,  did 
not  deliberate,  and  did  not  look  forward ;  he 
had  done  with  all  his  past,  he  leaped  forward 
into  the  future  ;  from  the  dreary  bank  of  his 
lonely  bachelor  life  he  plunged  headlong  into 
that  glad,  seething,  mighty  torrent — and  little 
he  cared,  little  he  wished  to  know,  where  it 
would  carry  him,  or  whether  it  would  dash  him 
against  a  rock  !  No  more  the  soft-flowing 
currents  of  the  Uhland  song,  which  had  lulled 
him  not  long  ago.  .  .  .  These  were  mighty, 
irresistible  torrents !  They  rush  flying  on- 
wards— and  he  flies  with  them.  .  .  . 

He  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  without 
blotting  out  a  word,  almost  with  one  sweep  of 
the  pen,  wrote  as  follows  : — 

'  Dear  Gemma, — You  know  what  advice  I 
undertook  to  give  you,  what  your  mother 
desired,  and  what  she  asked  of  me  ;  but  what 
you  don't  know  and  what  I  must  tell  you  now 
is,  that  I  love  you,  love  you  with  all  the 
ardour  of  a  heart  that  loves  for  the  first  time ! 
This  passion  has  flamed  up  in  me  suddenly, 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

but  with  such  force  that  I  can  find  no  words 
for  it !  When  your  mother  came  to  me  and 
asked  me,  it  was  still  only  smouldering  in  me, 
or  else  I  should  certainly,  as  an  honest  man, 
have  refused  to  carry  out  her  request.  .  .  .  The 
confession  I  make  you  now  is  the  confession 
of  an  honest  man.  You  ought  to  know  whom 
you  have  to  do  with — between  us  there  should 
exist  no  misunderstandings.  You  see  that  I 
cannot  give  you  any  advice.  ...  I  love  you, 
love  you,  love  you — and  I  have  nothing  else — 
either  in  my  head  or  in  my  heart  ! ! 

'  Dm.  Sanin.' 

When  he  had  folded  and  sealed  this  note, 
Sanin  was  on  the  point  of  ringing  for  the 
waiter  and  sending  it  by  him  ...  *  No  ! '  he 
thought,  *it  would  be  awkward.  .  .  .  By  Emil? 
But  to  go  to  the  shop,  and  seek  him  out  there 
among  the  other  employes,  would  be  awkward 
too.  Besides,  it's  dark  by  now,  and  he  has 
probably  left  the  shop.'  Reflecting  after  this 
fashion,  Sanin  put  on  his  hat,  however,  and 
went  into  the  street ;  he  turned  a  corner,  an- 
other, and  to  his  unspeakable  delight,  saw 
Emil  before  him.  With  a  satchel  under  his 
arm,  and  a  roll  of  papers  in  his  hand,  the  young 
enthusiast  was  hurrying  home. 
H  113 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

*  They  may  well  say  every  lover  has  a  lucky 
star/  thought  Sanin,  and  he  called  to  Emil. 

The  latter  turned  and  at  once  rushed  to  him. 

Sanin  cut  short  his  transports,  handed  him 
the  note,  and  explained  to  whom  and  how  he 
was  to  deliver  it.  .  .  .  Emil  listened  attentively. 

'  So  that  no  one  sees? 'he  inquired,  assum- 
ing an  important  and  mysterious  air,  that 
said,  '  We  understand  the  inner  meaning  of  it 
all!' 

*  Yes,  my  friend,'  said  Sanin  and  he  was  a 
little  disconcerted  ;  however,  he  patted  Emil 
on  the  cheek.  .  .  .  'And  if  there  should  be  an 
answer.  .  .  .  You  will  bring  me  the  answer, 
won't  you  ?     I  will  stay  at  home.' 

*  Don't  worry  yourself  about  that ! '  Emil 
whispered  gaily ;  he  ran  off,  and  as  he  ran 
nodded  once  more  to  him. 

Sanin  went  back  home,  and  without  light- 
ing a  candle,  flung  himself  on  the  sofa,  put  his 
hands  behind  his  head,  and  abandoned  himself 
to  those  sensations  of  newly  conscious  love, 
which  it  is  no  good  even  to  describe.  One 
who  has  felt  them  knows  their  languor  and 
sweetness ;  to  one  who  has  felt  them  not,  one 
could  never  make  them  known. 

The  door  opened — Emil's  head  appeared. 

'  I   have  brought  it,'   he  said  in  a  whisper  : 
*  here  it  is — the  answer  ! ' 
114 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

He  showed  and  waved  above  his  head  a 
folded  sheet  of  paper. 

Sanin  leaped  up  from  the  sofa  and  snatched 
it  out  of  Emil's  hand.  Passion  was  working 
too  powerfully  within  him  :  he  had  no  thought 
of  reserve  now,  nor  of  the  observance  of  a  suit- 
able demeanour — even  before  this  boy,  her 
brother.  He  would  have  been  scrupulous,  he 
would  have  controlled  himself — if  he  could  ! 
.  He  went  to  the  window,  and  by  the  light  of 
a  street  lamp  which  stood  just  opposite  the 
house,  he  read  the  following  lines  : — 

*  I  beg  you,  I  beseech  you — don't  come  to  see 
us^  don't  show  yourself  all  day  to-morrow.  It's 
necessary,  absolutely  necessary  for  me,  and 
then  everything  shall  be  settled.  I  know  you 
will  not  say  no,  because  .  .  . 

'  Gemma.' 

SanIn  read  this  note  twice  through.  Oh,  how 
touchingly  sweet  and  beautiful  her  handwriting 
seemed  to  him  !  He  thought  a  little,  and  turn- 
ing to  Emil,  who,  wishing  to  give  him  to  under- 
stand what  a  discreet  young  person  he  was, 
was  standing  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  and 
scratching  on  it  with  his  finger-nails,  he  called 
him  aloud  by  name. 

Emin  ran  at  once  to  Sanin.  *  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do  ? ' 

115 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

*  Listen,  my  young  friend  .  .  .' 

*  Monsieur  Dimitri,'  Emil  interrupted  in  a 
plaintive  voice,  'why  do  you  address  me  so 
formally  ? ' 

Sanin  laughed.  *  Oh,  very  well.  Listen, 
my  dearest  boy — (Emil  gave  a  little  skip  of 
delight) — listen  ;  there  you  understand,  there, 
you  will  say,  that  everything  shall  be  done 
exactly  as  is  wished — (Emil  compressed  his 
lips  and  nodded  solemnly) — and  as  for  me  .  .  . 
what  are  you  doing  to-morrow,  my  dear  boy  ?  ' 

'  I  ?  what  am  I  doing  ?  What  would  you 
like  me  to  do  ?  ' 

*  If  you  can,  come  to  me  early  in  the  morning 
— and  we  will  walk  about  the  country  round 
Frankfort  till  evening.  .  .  .  Would  you  like 
to.?' 

Emil  gave  another  little  skip.  '  I  say,  what 
in  the  world  could  be  jollier  ?  Go  a  walk  with 
you — why,  it 's  simply  glorious  !  I  '11  be  sure 
to  come  ! ' 

*  And  if  they  won  't  let  you  } ' 
'  They  will  let  me  ! ' 

*  Listen  .  .  .  Don't  say  t/iere  that  I  asked  you 
to  come  for  the  whole  day.' 

*  Why  should  I  ?  But  I  '11  get  away  all  the 
same !     What  does  it  matter  ? ' 

Emil  warmly  kissed  Sanin,  and  ran  away. 
Sanin  walked  up  and  down  the  room  a  long 
ii6 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

while,  and  went  late  to  bed.  He  gave  himself 
up  to  the  same  delicate  and  sweet  sensations, 
the  same  joyous  thrill  at  facing  a  new  life. 
Sanin  was  very  glad  that  the  idea  had  occurred 
to  him  to  invite  Emil  to  spend  the  next  day 
with  him  ;  he  was  like  his  sister.  '  He  will 
recall  her,'  was  his  thought. 

But  most  of  all,  he  marvelled  how  he  could 
have  been  yesterday  other  than  he  was  to-day. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  loved  Gemma 
for  all  time ;  and  that  he  had  loved  her  just 
as  he  loved  her  to-day. 


XXVI 

At  eight  o'clock  next  morning,  Emil  arrived 
at  Sanin's  hotel  leading  Tartaglia  by  a  string. 
Had  he  sprung  of  German  parentage,  he  could 
not^have  shown. greater  practicality.  He  had 
told  a  lie  at  home  ;  he  had  said  he  was  going 
for  a  walk  with  Sanin  till  lunch-time,  and  then 
going  to  the  shop.  While  Sanin  was  dressing, 
Emil  began  to  talk  to  him,  rather  hesitatingly, 
it  is  true,  about  Gemma,  about  her  rupture  with 
Herr  KlUber ;  but  Sanin  preserved  an  austere 
silence  in  reply,  and  Emil,  looking  as  though 
he  understood  why  so  serious  a  matter  should 
not  be  touched  on  lightly,  did  not  return  to  the 
117 


\ 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

subject,  and  only  assumed  from  time  to  time  an 
intense  and  even  severe  expression. 

After  drinking  coffee,  the  two  friends  set  off 
together — on  foot,  of  course — to  Hansen,  a 
little  village  lying  a  short  distance  from  Frank- 
fort, and  surrounded  by  woods.  The  whole 
chain  of  the  Taunus  mountains  could  be  seen 
clearly  from  there.  The  weather  was  lovely ; 
the  sunshine  was  bright  and  warm,  but  not 
blazing  hot  ;  a  fresh  wind  rustled  briskly 
among  the  green  leaves  ;  the  shadows  of  high, 
round  clouds  glided  swiftly  and  smoothly  in 
small  patches  over  the  earth.  The  two  young 
people  soon  got  out  of  the  town,  and  stepped 
out  boldly  and  gaily  along  the  well-kept  road. 
They  reached  the  woods,  and  wandered  about 
there  a  long  time  ;  then  they  lunched  very 
heartily  at  a  country  inn  ;  then  climbed  on  to 
the  mountains,  admired  the  views,  rolled  stones 
down  and  clapped  their  hands,  watching  the 
queer  droll  way  in  which  the  stones  hopped 
along  like  rabbits,  till  a  man  passing  below,  un- 
seen by  them,  began  abusing  them  in  a  loud 
ringing  voice.  Then  they  lay  full  length  on  the 
short  dry  moss  of  yellowish-violet  colour  ;  then 
they  drank  beer  at  another  inn  ;  ran  races,  and 
tried  for  a  wager  which  could  jump  farthest. 
They  discovered  an  echo,  and  began  to  call  to 
it ;  sang  songs,  hallooed,  wrestled,  broke  up  dry 
ii8 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

twigs,  decked  their  hats  with  fern,  and  even 
danced.  Tartaglia,  as  far  as  he  could,  shared 
in  all  these  pastimes  ;  he  did  not  throw  stones, 
it  is  true,  but  he  rolled  head  over  heels  after 
them  ;  he  howled  when  they  were  singing,  and 
even  drank  beer,  though  with  evident  aversion  ; 
he  had  been  trained  in  this  art  by  a  student  to 
whom  he  had  once  belonged.  But  he  was  not 
prompt  in  obeying  Emil — not  as  he  was  with 
his  master  Pantaleone — and  when  Emil  ordered 
him  to  *  speak,'  or  to  '  sneeze,'  he  only  wagged 
his  tail  and  thrust  out  his  tongue  like  a  pipe. 

The  young  people  talked,  too.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  walk,  Sanin,  as  the  elder,  and 
so  more  reflective,  turned  the  conversation  on 
fate  and  predestination,  and  the  nature  and 
meaning  of  man's  destiny  ;  but  the  conversation 
quickly  took  a  less  serious  turn.  Emil  began 
to  question  his  friend  and  patron  about  Russia, 
how  duels  were  fought  there,  and  whether  the 
women  there  were  beautiful,  and  whether  one 
could  learn  Russian  quickly,  and  what  he  had 
felt  when  the  officer  took  aim  at  him.  Sanin, 
on  his  side,  questioned  Emil  about  his  father, 
his  mother,  and  in  general  about  their  family 
affairs,  trying  every  time  not  to  mention 
Gemma's  name — and  thinking  only  of  her.  To 
speak  more  precisely,  it  was  not  of  her  he  was 
thinking,  but  of  the  morrow,  the  mysterious 
119 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

morrow  which  was  to  bring  him  new,  unknown 
happiness !  It  was  as  though  a  veil,  a  deHcate, 
bright  veil,  hung  faintly  fluttering  before  his 
mental  vision ;  and  behind  this  veil  he  felt  .  .  . 
felt  the  presence  of  a  youthful,  motionless. 
divine  image,  with  a  tender  smile  on  its  lips, 
and  eyelids  severely — with  affected  severity — 
downcast.  And  this  image  was  not  the  face  of 
Gemma,  it  was  the  face  of  happiness  itself! 
For,  behold,  at  last  his  hour  had  come,  the  veil 
had  vanished,  the  lips  were  parting,  the  eye- 
lashes are  raised — his  divinity  has  looked  upon 
him — and  at  once  light  as  from  the  sun,  and 
joy  and  bliss  unending !  He  dreamed  of  this 
morrow — and  his  soul  thrilled  with  joy  again 
in  the  melting  torture  of  ever-growing  expecta- 
tion ! 

And  this  expectation,  this  torture,  hindered 
nothing.  It  accompanied  every  action,  and 
did  not  prevent  anything.  It  did  not  prevent 
him  from  dining  capitally  at  a  third  inn  with 
Emil ;  and  only  occasionally,  like  a  brief  flash 
of  lightning,  the  thought  shot  across  him, 
What  if  any  one  in  the  world  knew?  This 
suspense  did  not  prevent  him  from  playing 
leap-frog  with  Emil  after  dinner.  The  game 
took  place  on  an  open  green  lawn.  And  the 
confusion,  the  stupefaction  of  Sanin  may  be 
imagined  !     At  the  very  moment  when,  accom- 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING     V., 

panicd  by  a  sharp  bark  from  Tartaglia,  he  was 
flying  like  a  bird,  with  his  legs  outspread  over 
Emil,  who  was  bent  double,  he  suddenly  saw 
on  the  farthest  border  of  the  lawn  two  officers, 
in  whom  he  recognised  at  once  his  adversary 
and  his  second,  Herr  von  Donhof  and  Herr  von 
Richter  !  Each  of  them  had  stuck  an  eyeglass 
in  his  eye,  and  was  staring  at  him,  chuckling  ! 
.  .  .  Sanin  got  on  his  feet,  turned  away 
hurriedly,  put  on  the  coat  he  had  flung  down, 
jerked  out  a  word  to  Emil  ;  the  latter,  too,  put 
on  his  jacket,  and  they  both  immediately  made 
off. 

It  was  late  when  they  got  back  to  Frankfort. 
'They'll  scold  me,'  Emil  said  to  Sanin  as  he 
said  good-bye  to  him.  '  Well,  what  does  it 
matter?  I've  had  such  a  splendid,  splendid 
day ! ' 

When  he  got  home  to  his  hotel,  Sanin  found 
a  note  there  from  Gemma.  She  fixed  a  meeting 
with  him  for  next  day,  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  in  one  of  the  public  gardens  which 
surround  Frankfort  on  all  sides. 

How  his  heart  throbbed  !  How  glad  he  was 
that  he  had  obeyed  her  so  unconditionally ! 
And,  my  God,  what  was  promised  .  .  .  what 
was  not  promised,  by  that  unknown,  unique, 
impossible,  and  undubitably  certain  morrow  ! 

He  feasted  his  eyes  on  Gemma's  note.      The 

121 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

long,  elegant  tail  of  the  letter  G,  the  first  letter 
of  her  name,  which  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sheet,  reminded  him  of  her  lovely  fingers,  her 
hand.  .  .  .  He  thought  that  he  had  not  once 
touched  that  hand  with  his  lips.  .  .  .  '  Italian 
women,'  he  mused,  *  in  spite  of  what 's  said  of 
them,  are  modest  and  severe.  .  .  .  And  Gemma 
above  all !  Queen  .  .  .  goddess  .  .  .  pure, 
virginal  marble.  .  .  .' 

*  But  the  time  will  come ;  and  it  is  not  far 
off.  .  .  .'  There  was  that  night  in  Frankfort 
one  happy  man.  .  .  .  He  slept ;  but  he  might 
have  said  of  himself  in  the  words  of  the  poet : 

*  I  sleep  .  .  .  but  my  watchful  heart  sleeps  not.' 
And    it    fluttered    as    lightly   as    a    butterfly 
flutters  his  wings,  as  he  stoops  over  the  flowers 
in  the  summer  sunshine. 


xxvn 

At  five  o'clock  Sanin  woke  up,  at  six  he  was 
dressed,  at  half-past  six  he  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  public  garden  within  sight  of  the 
little  arbour  which  Gemma  had  mentioned  in 
her  note.  It  was  a  still,  warm,  grey  morning. 
It  sometimes  seemed  as  though  it  were  begin- 
ning to  rain  ;  but  the  outstretched  hand  felt 
nothing,  and  only  looking  at  one's  coat-slccve, 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

one  could  see  traces  of  tiny  drops  like  diminu- 
tive beads,  but  even  these  were  soon  gone.  It 
seemed  there  had  never  been  a  breath  of  wind 
in  the  world.  Every  sound  moved  not,  but 
was  shed  around  in  the  stillness.  In  the 
distance  was  a  faint  thickening  of  whitish  mist ; 
in  the  air  there  was  a  scent  of  mignonette  and 
white  acacia  flowers. 

In  the  streets  the  shops  were  not  open  yet, 
but  there  were  already  some  people  walking 
about ;  occasionally  a  solitary  carriage  rumbled 
along  .  .  .  there  was  no  one  walking  in  the 
garden.  A  gardener  was  in  a  leisurely  way 
scraping  the  path  with  a  spade,  and  a  decrepit 
old  woman  in  a  black  woollen  cloak  was 
hobbling  across  the  garden  walk.  Sanin  could 
not  for  one  instant  mistake  this  poor  old 
creature  for  Gemma  ;  and  yet  his  heart  leaped, 
and  he  watched  attentively  the  retreating  patch 
of  black. 

Seven  !  chimed  the  clock  on  the  tower. 
Sanin  stood  still.  Was  it  possible  she  would 
not  come  ?  A  shiver  of  cold  suddenly  ran 
through  his  limbs.  The  same  shiver  came 
again  an  instant  later,  but  from  a  different 
cause.  Sanin  heard  behind  him  light  footsteps, 
the  light  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress.  .  .  .  He 
turned  round  :  she  ! 

Gemma  was  coming  up  behind  him  along 
123 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

the  path.  She  was  wearing  a  grey  cape  and  a 
small  dark  hat.  She  glanced  at  Sanin,  turned 
her  head  away,  and  catching  him  up,  passed 
rapidly  by  him. 

*  Gemma,'  he  articulated,  hardly  audibly. 

She  gave  him  a  little  nod,  and  continued  to 
walk  on  in  front.     He  followed  her. 

He  breathed  in  broken  gasps.  His  legs 
shook  under  him. 

Gemma  passed  by  the  arbour,  turned  to  the 
right,  passed  by  a  small  flat  fountain,  in  which 
the  sparrows  were  splashing  busily,  and,  going 
behind  a  clump  of  high  lilacs,  sank  down  on  a 
bench.  The  place  was  snug  and  hidden. 
Sanin  sat  down  beside  her. 

A  minute  passed,  and  neither  he  nor  she 
uttered  a  word.  She  did  not  even  look  at  him  ; 
and  he  gazed  not  at  her  face,  but  at  her  clasped 
hands,  in  which  she  held  a  small  parasol. 
What  was  there  to  tell,  what  was  there  to  say, 
which  could  compare,  in  importance,  with  the 
simple  fact  of  their  presence  there,  together, 
alone,  so  early,  so  close  to  each  other. 

'  You  .  .  .  are  not  angry  with  me  ? '  Sanin 
articulated  at  last. 

It  would   have  been  difficult    for  Sanin   to 
have  said   anything  more   foolish   than    these 
words  ...  he  was  conscious  of  it  himself  .  .  . 
But,  at  any  rate,  the  silence  was  broken. 
124 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'  Angry  ?  '  she  answered.     *  What  for  ?     No.' 

*  And  you  believe  me  ? '  he  went  on. 

*  In  what  you  wrote  ? ' 
'  Yes.' 

Gemma's  head  sank,  and  she  said  nothing. 
The  parasol  slipped  out  of  her  hands.  She 
hastily  caught  it  before  it  dropped  on  the  path. 

*  Ah,  believe  me  !  believe  what  I  wrote  to 
you  ! '  cried  Sanin  ;  all  his  timidity  suddenly 
vanished,  he  spoke  with  heat  ;  '  if  there  is  truth 
on  earth — sacred,  absolute  truth — it 's  that  I 
love,  love  you  passionately,  Gemma.' 

She  flung  him  a  sideway,  momentary  glance, 
and  again  almost  dropped  the  parasol. 

'  Believe  me  !  believe  me  ! '  he  repeated.  He 
besought  her,  held  out  his  hands  to  her,  and 
did  not  dare  to  touch  her.  '  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do  ...  to  convince  you  ? ' 

She  glanced  at  him  again. 

'  Tell  me.  Monsieur  Dimitri,'  she  began  ;  '  the 
day  before  yesterday,  when  you  came  to  talk 
to  me,  you  did  not,  I  imagine,  know  then  .  .  . 
did  not  feel  .  .  .' 

'  I  felt  it,'  Sanin  broke  in  ;  '  but  I  did  not 
know  it.  I  have  loved  you  from  the  very 
instant  I  saw  you  ;  but  I  did  not  realise  at 
once  what  you  had  become  to  me !  And 
besides,  I  heard  that  you  were  solemnly  be- 
trothed. ...  As  far  as  your  mother's  request 
125 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

is  concerned — in  the  first  place,  how  could  I 
refuse? — and  secondly,  I  think  I  carried  out 
her  request  in  such  a  way  that  you  could 
guess.  .  .  .' 

They  heard  a  heavy  tread,  and  a  rather  stout 
gentleman  with  a  knapsack  over  his  shoulder, 
apparently  a  foreigner,  emerged  from  behind 
the  clump,  and  staring,  with  the  unceremonious- 
ness of  a  tourist,  at  the  couple  sitting  on  the 
garden-seat,  gave  a  loud  cough  and  went  on. 

'Your  mother,'  Sanin  began,  as  soon  as  the 
sound  of  the  heavy  footsteps  had  ceased,  '  told 
me  your  breaking  off  your  engagement  would 
cause  a  scandal ' — Gemma  frowned  a  little — 
*  that  I  was  myself  in  part  responsible  for 
unpleasant  gossip,  and  that  .  .  .  consequently 
...  I  was,  to  some  extent,  under  an  obligation 
to  advise  you  not  to  break  with  your  betrothed, 
Herr  Kliiber.  .  .  .' 

'  Monsieur  Dimitri,'  said  Gemma,  and  she 
passed  her  hand  over  her  hair  on  the  side 
turned  towards  Sanin,  '  don't,  please,  call  Herr 
Kliiber  my  betrothed.  I  shall  never  be  his 
wife.     I  have  broken  with  him.' 

'  You  have  broken  with  him  ?  when  ? ' 

*  Yesterday.' 

*  You  saw  him  ?  ' 

*  Yes.     At  our  house.     He  came  to  sec  us.' 
'  Gemma  ?     Then  you  love  me  ? ' 

126 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

She  turned  to  him. 

'Should  ...  I  have  come  here,  if  not.^'  she 
whispered,  and  both  her  hands  fell  on  the  seat. 

Sanin  snatched  those  powerless,  upturned 
palms,  and  pressed  them  to  his  eyes,  to  his 
lips.  .  .  .  Now  the  veil  was  lifted  of  which  he 
had  dreamed  the  night  before  !  Here  was 
happiness,  here  was  its  radiant  form  ! 

He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  at  Gemma, 
boldly  and  directly.  She,  too,  looked  at  him, 
a  little  downwards.  Her  half-shut  eyes  faintly 
glistened,  dim  with  light,  blissful  tears.  Her 
face  was  not  smiling  ...  no !  it  laughed,  with 
a  blissful,  noiseless  laugh. 

He  tried  to  draw  her  to  him,  but  she  drew 
back,  and  never  ceasing  to  laugh  the  same 
noiseless  laugh,  shook  her  head.  '  Wait  a  little,* 
her  happy  eyes  seemed  to  say. 

'  O  Gemma  1 '  cried  Sanin  :  '  I  never  dreamed 
that  you  would  love  me  ! ' 

*  I  did  not  expect  this  myself,'  Gemma  said 
softly. 

'  How  could  I  ever  have  dreamed,'  Sanin  went 
on,  '  when  I  came  to  Frankfort,  where  I  only 
expected  to  remain  a  few  hours,  that  I  should 
find  here  the  happiness  of  all  my  life  ! ' 

*  All  your  life  ?     Really  ? '  queried  Gemma. 

'  All  my  life,  for  ever  and  ever ! '  cried  Sanin 
with  fresh  ardour. 

127 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

The  gardener's  spade  suddenly  scraped  two 
paces  from  where  they  were  sitting. 

*  Let 's  go  home,'  whispered  Gemma  :  *  we  '11 
go  together — will  you  ? ' 

If  she  had  said  to  him  at  that  instant  '  Throw 
yourself  in  the  sea,  will  you  ? '  he  would  have 
been  flying  headlong  into  the  ocean  before  she 
had  uttered  the  last  word. 

They  went  together  out  of  the  garden  and 
turned  homewards,  not  by  the  streets  of  the 
town,  but  through  the  outskirts. 


XXVIII 

Sanin  walked  along,  at  one  time  by  Gemma's 
side,  at  another  time  a  little  behind  her.  He 
never  took  his  eyes  off  her  and  never  ceased 
smiling.  She  seemed  to  hasten  .  .  .  seemed  to 
linger.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  both — he  all 
pale,  and  she  all  flushed  with  emotion — were 
moving  along  as  in  a  dream.  What  they  had 
done  together  a  few  instants  before — that  sur- 
render of  each  soul  to  another  soul — was  so 
intense,  so  new,  and  so  moving ;  so  suddenly 
everything  in  their  lives  had  been  changed  and 
displaced  that  they  could  not  recover  them- 
selves, and  were  only  aware  of  a  whirlwind 
carrying  them  along,  like  the  whirlwind  on  that 
128 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

night,  which  had  almost  flung  them  into  each 
other's  arms.  Sanin  walked  along,  and  felt 
that  he  even  looked  at  Gemma  with  other 
eyes  ;  he  instantly  noted  some  peculiarities  in 
her  walk,  in  her  movements, — and  heavens ! 
how  infinitely  sweet  and  precious  they  were  to 
him  !  And  she  felt  that  that  was  how  he  was 
looking  at  her. 

Sarnnj^nH  she  werp  in  loyp  for  the  first  time  ; 
all  the  miracles  of  first  love  were  working  in 
them.  First  love  is  like  a  revolution ;  the 
uniformly  regular  routine  of  ordered  life  is 
broken  down  and  shattered  in  one  instant ; 
youth  mounts  the  barricade,  waves  high  its 
bright  flag,  and  whatever  awaits  it  in  the  future 
— death  or  a  new  life — all  alike  it  goes  to  meet 
with  ecstatic  welcome. 

'What's  this?  Isn't  that  our  old  friend?' 
said  Sanin,  pointing  to  a  muffled-up  figure, 
which  hurriedly  slipped  a  little  aside  as  though 
trying  to  remain  unobserved.  In  the  midst  of 
his  abundant  happiness  he  felt  a  need  to  talk 
to  Gemma,  not  of  love — that  was  a  settled 
thing  and  holy — but  of  something  else. 

*  Yes,  it 's  Pantaleone,'  Gemma  answered 
gaily  and  happily.  '  Most  likely  he  has  been 
following  me  ever  since  I  left  home ;  all  day 
yesterday  he  kept  watching  every  movement 
I  made  .  .  .  He  guesses  ! ' 
I  129 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'  He  guesses ! '  Sanin  repeated  in  ecstasy. 
What  could  Gemma  have  said  at  which  he 
would  not  have  been  in  ecstasy? 

Then  he  asked  her  to  tell  him  in  detail  all 
that  had  passed  the  day  before. 

And  she  began  at  once  telling  him,  with 
haste,  and  confusion,  and  smiles,  and  brief 
sighs,  and  brief  bright  looks  exchanged  with 
Sanin.  She  said  that  after  their  conversation 
the  day  before  yesterday,  mamma  had  kept 
trying  to  get  out  of  her  something  positive ; 
but  that  she  had  put  off  Frau  Lenore  with 
a  promise  to  tell  her  her  decision  within  twenty- 
four  hours ;  how  she  had  demanded  this  limit 
of  time  for  herself,  and  how  difficult  it  had  been 
to  get  it;  how  utterly  unexpectedly  Herr  Kliiber 
had  made  his  appearance  more  starched  and 
affected  than  ever;  how  he  had  given  vent  to^ 
his  Jiidignation  at  the  childish,  unpardonable 
action  of  the  Russian  stranger — *  he  meant 
your  duel,  Dimitri,' — which  he  described  as 
deeply  insulting  to  him,  Kliiber,  and  how  he 
had  demanded  that  'you  should  be  at  once 
refused  admittance  to  the  house,  Dimitri.' 
*  For,'  he  had  added — and  here  Gemma  slightly 
mimicked  his  voice  and  manner — * "  it  casts  a 
slur  on  my  honour  ;  as  though  I  were  not  able 
to  defend  my  betrothed,  had  I  thought  it 
necessary  or  advisable  !  All  Frankfort  will 
130 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

know  by  to-morrow  that  an  outsider  has  fought 
a  duel  with  an  officer  on  account  of  my  be- 
trothed— did  any  one  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ! 
It  tarnishes  my  honour  !  "  Mamma  agreed  with 
him — fancy  ! — but  then  I  suddenly  told  him 
that  he  was  troubling  himself  unnecessarily 
about  his  honour  and  his  character,  and  was 
unnecessarily  annoyed  at  the  gossip  about  his 
betrothed,  for  I  was  no  longer  betrothed  to  him 
and  would  never  be  his  wife !  I  must  own,  I 
had  meant  to  talk  to  you  first  .  .  .  before  break- 
ing with  him  finally ;  but  he  came  .  .  .  and  I 
could  not  restrain  myself.  Mamma  positively 
screamed  with  horror,  but  I  went  into  the  next 
room  and  got  his  ring — you  didn't  notice,  I 
took  it  off  two  days  ago — and  gave  it  to  him. 
He  was  fearfully  offended,  but  as  he  is  fear- 
fully self-conscious  and  conceited,  he  did  not 
say  much,  and  went  away.  Of  course  I  had  to 
go  through  a  great  deal  with  mamma,  and  it 
made  me  very  wretched  to  see  how  distressed 
she  was,  and  I  thought  I  had  been  a  little  hasty  ; 
but  you  see  I  had  your  note,  and  even  apart 
from  it  I  knew  .  .  .' 

'That  I  love  you,'  put  in  Sanin. 

*Yes  .  .  .  that  you  were  in  love  with  me.' 

So  Gemma   talked,  hesitating  and    smiling 

and  dropping  her  voice  or  stopping  altogether 

every  time  any  one  met  them  or  passed  by. 

131 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

And  Sanin  listened  ecstatically,  enjoying  the 
very  sound  of  her  voice,  as  the  day  before  he 
had  gloated  over  her  handwriting. 

'Mamma  is  very  much  distressed,'  Gemma 
began  again,  and  her  words  flew  very  rapidly 
one  after  another ;  '  she  refuses  to  take  into 
consideration  that  I  dislike  Herr  Kluber,  that 
I  never  was  betrothed  to  him  from  love,  but  only 
because  of  her  urgent  entreaties.  .  .  .  She 
suspects — you,  Dimitri ;  that 's  to  say,  to  speak 
plainly,  she 's  convinced  I  'm  in  love  with  you, 
and  she  is  more  unhappy  about  it  because  only 
the  day  before  yesterday  nothing  of  the  sort 
had  occurred  to  her,  and  she  even  begged  you 
to  advise  me.  ...  It  was  a  strange  request, 
wasn't  it?  Now  she  calls  you  .  .  ..Dimitri,  a 
hypocrite  and  a  cunning  fellow,  says  that  you 
have  betrayed  her  confidence,  and  predicts  that 
you  will  deceive  me.  .   .  .' 

*  But,  Gemma,'  cried  Sanin,  *  do  you  mean  to 
say  you  didn't  tell  her  ?  .  .' 

'I  told  her  nothing!  What  right  had  I 
without  consulting  you  ? ' 

Sanin  threw  up  his  arms.  '  Gemma,  I  hope 
that  now,  at  least,  you  will  tell  all  to  her 
and  take  me  to  her.  ...  I  want  to  convince 
your  mother  that  I  am  not  a  base  deceiver ! ' 

Sanin's  bosom  fairly  heaved  with  the  flood  of 
generous  and  ardent  emotions. 
132 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Gemma  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  'You 
really  want  to  go  with  me  now  to  mamma? 
to  mamma,  who  maintains  that  ...  all  this 
between  us  is  impossible — and  can  never  come 
to  pass?'  There  was  one  word  Gemma  could 
not  bring  herself  to  utter.  .  .  .  It  burnt  her  lips  ; 
but  all  the  more  eagerly  Sanin  pronounced  it. 

'  Marry  you,  Gemma,  be  your  husband — I 
can  imagine  no  bliss  greater  ! ' 

To  his  love,  his  magnanimity,  his  determina- 
tion— he  was  aware  of  no  limits  now. 

When  she  heard  those  words,  Gemma,  who 
had  stopped  still  for  an  instant,  went  on  faster 
than  ever.  .  .  .  She  seemed  trying  to  run  away 
from  this  too  great  and  unexpected  happiness ! 

But  suddenly  her  steps  faltered.  Round  the 
corner  of  a  turning,  a  few  paces  from  her,  in  a 
new  hat  and  coat,  straight  as  an  arrow  and 
curled  like  a  poodle — emerged  Herr  Kliiber. 
He  caught  sight  of  Gemma,  caught  sight  of 
Sanin,  and  with  a  sort  of  inward  snort  and  a 
backward  bend  of  his  supple  figure,  he  advanced 
with  a  dashing  swing  to  meet  them.  Sanin 
felt  a  pang ;  but  glancing  at  Kluber's  face,  to 
which  its  owner  endeavoured,  as  far  as  in  him 
lay,  to  give  an  expression  of  scornful  amaze- 
ment, and  even  commiseration,  glancing  at 
that  red-cheeked,  vulgar  face,  he  felt  a  sudden 
rush  of  anger,  and  took  a  step  forward. 
133 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Gemma  seized  his  arm,  and  with  quiet  de- 
cision, giving  him  hers,  she  looked  her  former 
betrothed  full  in  the  face.  .  .  .  The  latter 
screwed  up  his  face,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
shuffled  to  one  side,  and  muttering  between 
his  teeth,  'The  usual  end  to  the  song!'  (Das 
alte  Ende  vom  Liede !) — walked  away  with  the 
same  dashing,  slightly  skipping  gait. 

'  What  did  he  say,  the  wretched  creature  ? ' 
asked  Sanin,  and  would  have  rushed  after 
Kliiber  ;  but  Gemma  held  him  back  and  walked 
on  with  him,  not  taking  away  the  arm  she  had 
slipped  into  his. 

The  Rosellis'  shop  came  into  sight.  Gemma 
stopped  once  more. 

*  Dimitri,  Monsieur  Dimitri,'  she  said,  *  we 
are  not  there  yet,  we  have  not  seen  mamma 
yet.  ...  If  you  would  rather  think  a  little, 
if  .  .  .  you  are  still  free,  Dimitri ! ' 

In  reply  Sanin  pressed  her  hand  tightly  to 
his  bosom,  and  drew  her  on. 

*  Mamma,'  said  Gemma,  going  with  Sanin 
to  the  room  where  Frau  Lenore  was  sitting,  '  I 
have  brought  the  real  one  ! ' 

XXIX 

If  Gemma  had  announced  that  she  had  brought 

with  her  cholera  or  death  itself,  one  can  hardly 

134 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

imagine  that  Frau  Lenorc  could  have  received 
the  news  with  greater  despair.  She  immediately 
sat  down  in  a  corner,  with  her  face  to  the  wall, 
and  burst  into  floods  of  tears,  positively  wailed, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  Russian  peasant  woman 
on  the  grave  of  her  husband  or  her  son.  For 
the  first  minute  Gemma  was  so  taken  aback 
that  she  did  not  even  go  up  to  her  mother, 
but  stood  still  like  a  statue  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  ;  while  Sanin  was  utterly  stupefied,  to  the 
point  of  almost  bursting  into  tears  himself! 
For  a  whole  hour  that  inconsolable  wail  went 
on — a  whole  hour!  Pantaleone  thought  it 
better  to  shut  the  outer  door  of  the  shop,  so 
that  no  stranger  should  come  ;  luckily,  it  was 
still  early.  The  old  man  himself  did  not  know 
what  to  think,  and  in  any  case,  did  not  approve 
of  the  haste  with  which  Gemma  and  Sanin  had 
acted ;  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  blame 
them,  and  was  prepared  to  give  them  his 
support  in  case  of  need :  he  greatly  disliked 
Kliiber  !  Emil  regarded  himself  as  the  medium 
of  communication  between  his  friend  and  his 
sister,  and  almost  prided  himself  on  its  all 
having  turned  out  so  splendidly !  He  was 
positively  unable  to  conceive  why  Frau  Lenore 
was  so  upset,  and  in  his  heart  he  decided  on 
the  spot  that  women,  e  /en  the  best  of  them, 
suffeTTrom^a  Tack 'of  "reasbmrig  power !  Sanin 
135 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

fared  worst  of  all.  Frau  Lenore  rose  to  a  howl 
and  waved  him  off  with  her  hands,  directly 
he  approached  her ;  and  it  was  in  vain  that 
he  attempted  once  or  twice  to  shout  aloud, 
standing  at  a  distance,  '  I  ask  you  for  your 
daughter's  hand  ! '  Frau  Lenore  was  particu- 
larly angry  with  herself.  '  How  could  she  have 
been  so  blind-^have  seen  nothing?  Had  my 
Giovann'  Battista  been  alive,'  she  persisted 
through  her  tears,  *  nothing  of  this  sort  would 
have  happened  ! '  '  Heavens,  what 's  it  all 
about  ? '  thought  Sanin  ;  '  why,  it 's  positively 
senseless  ! '  He  did  not  dare  to  look  at  Gemma, 
nor  could  she  pluck  up  courage  to  lift  her  eyes 
to  him.  She  restricted  herself  to  waiting 
patiently  on  her  mother,  who  at  first  repelled 
even  her.  .  .  . 

At  last,  by  degrees,  the  storm  abated.  Frau 
Lenore  gave  over  weeping,  permitted  Gemma 
to  bring  her  out  of  the  corner,  where  she  sat 
huddled  up,  to  put  her  into  an  arm-chair  near 
the  window,  and  to  give  her  some  orange-flower 
water  to  drink.  She  permitted  Sanin — not  to 
approach  .  .  .  oh,  no ! — but,  at  any  rate,  to 
remain  in  the  room — she  had  kept  clamouring 
for  him  to  go  away — and  did  not  interrupt  him 
when  he  spoke.  Sanin  immediately  availed 
himself  of  the  calm  as  it  set  in,  and  displayed 
an  astounding  eloquence.  He  could  hardly 
136 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

have  explained  his  intentions  and  emotions  with 
more  fire  and  persuasive  force  even  to  Gemma 
herself.  Those  emotions  were  of  the  sincerest, 
those  intentions  were  of  the  purest,  like 
Almaviva's  in  the  Barber  of  Seville.  He 
did  not  conceal  from  Frau  Lenore  nor  from 
himself  the  disadvantageous  side  of  those  in- 
tentions ;  but  the  disadvantages  were  only 
apparent !  It  is  true  he  was  a  foreigner  ;  they 
had  not  known  him  long,  they  knew  nothing 
positive  about  himself  or  his  means ;  but  he 
was  prepared  to  bring  forward  all  the  necessary 
evidence  that  he  was  a  respectable  person  and 
not  poor ;  he  would  refer  them  to  the  most 
unimpeachable  testimony  of  his  fellow-country- 
men !  He  hoped  Gemma  would  be  happy  with 
him,  and  that  he  would  be  able  to  make  up  to 
her  for  the  separation  from  her  own  people  !  .  .  . 
The  allusion  to  '  separation  ' — the  mere  word 
'  separation ' — almost  spoiled  the  whole  busi- 
ness. .  .  .  Frau  Lenore  began  to  tremble  all 
over  and  move  about  uneasily.  .  .  .  Sanin 
hastened  to  observe  that  the  separation  would 
only  be  temporary,  and  that,  in  fact,  possibly  it 
would  not  take  place  at  all ! 

Sanin's    eloquence   was    not    thrown   away. 

Frau  Lenore  began  to  glance  at  him,  though 

still  with   bitterness  and  reproach,  no  longer 

with  the  same  aversion   and  fury;    then   she 

137 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

suffered  him  to  come  near  her,  and  even  to 
sit  down  beside  her  (Gemma  was  sitting  on  the 
other  side)  ;  then  she  fell  to  reproaching  him, — 
not  in  looks  only,  but  in  words,  which  already 
indicated  a  certain  softening  of  heart ;  she  fell 
to  complaining,  and  her  complaints  became 
quieter  and  gentler ;  they  were  interspersed 
with  questions  addressed  at  one  time  to  her 
daughter,  and  at  another  to  Sanin  ;  then  she 
suffered  him  to  take  her  hand  and  did  not  at 
once  pull  it  away  .  .  .  then  she  wept  again, 
but  her  tears  were  now  quite  of  another  kind.  .  .  . 
Then  she  smiled  mournfully,  and  lamented  the 
absence  of  Giovanni  Battista,  but  quite  on 
different  grounds  from  before.  .  .  .  An  instant 
more  and  the  two  criminals,  Sanin  and  Gemma, 
\were  on  their  knees  at  her  feet,  and  she  was 
taying  her  hands  on  their  heads  in  turn ; 
another  instant  and  they  were  embracing  and 
kissing  her,  and  Emil,  his  face  beaming  rap- 
turously, ran  into  the  room  and  added  himself 
to  the  group  so  warmly  united. 

Pantaleone  peeped  into  the  room,  smiled 
and  frowned  at  the  same  time,  and  going  into 
the  shop,  opened  the  front  door. 


38 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


XXX 

The  transition  from  despair  to  sadness,  and 
from  that  to  'gentle  resignation/  was  accom- 
plished fairly  quickly  in  Frau  Lenore  ;  but  that 
gentle  resignation,  too,  was  not  slow  in  chang- 
ing into  a  secret  satisfaction,  which  was,  how- 
ever, concealed  in  every  way  and  suppressed 
for  the  sake  of  appearances.  Sanin  had  won 
Frau  Lenore's  heart  from  the  first  day  of  their 
acquaintance;  as  she  got  used  to  the  idea  of 
his  being  her  son-in-law,  she  found  nothing 
particularly  distasteful  in  it,  though  she  thought 
it  her  duty  to  preserve  a  somewhat  hurt, 
or  rather  careworn,  expression  on  her  face. 
Besides,  everything  that  had  happened  the  last 
few  days  had  been  so  extraordinary.  .  .  .  One 
thing  upon  the  top  of  another.  As  a  practical 
woman  and  a  mother,  Frau  Lenore  considered 
it  her  duty  also  to  put  Sanin  through  various 
questions  ;  and  Sanin,  who,  on  setting  out  that 
morning  to  meet  Gemma,  had  not  a  notion  that 
he  should  marry  her — it  is  true  he  did  not 
think  of  anything  at  all  at  that  time,  but 
simply  gave  himself  up  to  the  current  of  his 
passion — Sanin  entered,  with  perfect  readiness, 
one  might  even  say  with  zeal,  into  his  part — 
the  part  of  the  betrothed  lover,  and  answered 
139 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

all  har  inquiries  circumstantially,  exactly,  with 
alacrity.  When  she  had  satisfied  herself  that 
he  was  a  real  nobleman  by  birth,  and  had  even 
expressed  some  surprise  that  he  was  not  a 
prince,  Frau  Lenore  assumed  a  serious  air  and 
*  warned  him  betimes '  that  she  should  be  quite 
unceremoniously  frank  with  him,  as  she  was 
forced  to  be  so  by  her  sacred  duty  as  a  mother  ! 
To  which  Sanin  replied  that  he  expected 
nothing  else  from  her,  and  that  he  earnestly 
begged  her  not  to  spare  him  ! 

Then  Frau  Lenore  observed  that  Herr 
Kliiber — as  she  uttered  the  name,  she  sighed 
faintly,  tightened  her  lips,  and  hesitated — Herr 
Kliiber,  Gemma's  former  betrothed,  already 
possessed  an  income  of  eight  thousand  guldens, 
and  that  with  every  year  this  sum  would  rapidly 
be  increased  ;  and  what  was  his,  Herr  Sanin's 
income?  'Eight  thousand  guldens,'  Sanin 
repeated  deliberately.  .  .  .  *  That's  in  our 
money  .  .  .  about  fifteen  thousand  roubles.  .  .  . 
My  income  is  much  smaller.  I  have  a  small 
estate  in  the  province  of  Tula.  .  .  .  With  good 
management,  it  might  yield — and,  in  fact,  it 
could  not  fail  to  yield — five  or  six  thousand  .  .  . 
and  if  I  go  into  the  government  service,  I  can 
easily  get  a  salary  of  two  thousand  a  year.' 

'Into   the   service   in    Russia?'    cried    Frau 
Lenore.     '  Then  I  must  part  with  Gemma  ! ' 
140 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*One  might  be  able  to  enter  in  the  diplo- 
matic service,'  Sanin  put  in ;  *  I  have  some 
connections.  .  .  .  There  one's  duties  lie  abroad. 
Or  else,  this  is  what  one  might  do,  and  that 's 
much  the  best  of  all :  sell  my  estate  and  em- 
ploy the  sum  received  for  it  in  some  profitable 
undertaking ;  for  instance,  the  improvement  of 
your  shop.'  Sanin  was  aware  that  he  was 
saying  something  absurd,  but  he  was  possessed 
by  an  incomprehensible  recklessness !  He  looked 
at  Gemma,  who,  ever  since  the  *  practical '  con- 
versation began,  kept  getting  up,  walking  about 
the  room,  and  sitting  down  again — he  looked 
at  her — and  no  obstacle  existed  for  him,  and  he 
was  ready  to  arrange  everything  at  once  in  the 
best  way,  if  only  she  were  not  troubled ! 

'  Herr  Kluber,too,  had  intended  to  give  me  a 
small  sum  for  the  improvement  of  the  shop,' 
Lenore  observed  after  a  slight  hesitation. 

'  Mother !  for  mercy's  sake,  mother  ! '  cried 
Gemma  in  Italian. 

*  These  things  must  be  discussed  in  good 
time,  my  daughter,'  Frau  Lenore  replied  in  the 
same  language.  She  addressed  herself  again 
to  Sanin,  and  began  questioning  him  as  to  the 
laws  existing  in  Russia  as  to  marriage,  and 
whether  there  were  no  obstacles  to  contracting 
marriages  with  Catholics  as  in  Prussia.  (At 
that  time,  in  1840,  all  Germany  still  remem- 
141 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

bered  the  controversy  between  the  Prussian 
Government  and  the  Archbishop  of  Cologne 
upon  mixed  marriages.)  When  Frau  Lenore 
heard  that  by  marrying  a  Russian  nobleman, 
her  daughter  would  herself  become  of  noble 
rank,  she  evinced  a  certain  satisfaction.  '  But, 
of  course,  you  will  first  have  to  go  to  Russia  ? ' 

'Why?' 

'Why?  Why,  to  obtain  the  permission  of 
your  Tsar.' 

Sanin  explained  to  her  that  that  was  not  at 
all  necessary  .  .  .  but  that  he  might  certainly 
have  to  go  to  Russia  for  a  very  short  time  before 
his  marriage — (he  said  these  words,  and  his 
heart  ached  painfully,  Gemma  watching  him. 
knew  it  was  aching,  and  blushed  anr  grew 
dreamy) — and  that  he  would  try  to  take 
advantage  of  being  in  his  own  country  o  sell 
his  estate  ...  in  any  case  he  would  bring  back 
the  money  needed. 

'  I  would  ask  you  to  bring  me  back  some 
good  Astrakhan  lambskin  for  a  cape,'  said  Frau 
Lenore.  'They're  wonderfully  good,  I  hear, 
and  wonderfully  cheap  ! ' 

'  Certainly,  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  I  will 
bring  some  for  you  and  for  Gemma ! '  cried  Sanin. 

*  And  for  me  a  morocco  cap  worked  in 
silver,*  Emil  interposed,  putting  his  head  in 
from  the  next  room. 

142 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'  Very  well,  I  will  bring  it  you  .  .  .  and  some 
slippers  for  Pantaleone.' 

*  Come,  that 's  nonsense,  nonsense,'  observed 
Frau  Lenore.  *  We  are  talking  now  of  serious 
matters.  But  there  's  another  point,'  added  the 
practical  lady.  'You  talk  of  selling  your 
estate.  But  how  will  you  do  that  ?  Will  you 
sell  your  peasants  then,  too  ? ' 

Sanin  felt  something  like  a  stab  at  his 
heart.  He  remembered  that  in  a  conversation 
with  Signota  Roselli  and  her  daughter  about 
serfdom,  which,  in  his  own  words,  aroused  his 
deepest  indignation,  he  had  repeatedly  assured 
them  that  never  on  any  account  would  he  sell 
his  peasants,  as  he  regarded  such  a  sale  as  an 
immoral  act. 

•  I  will  try  and  sell  my  estate  to  some  man  I 
know  something  of,'  he  articulated,  not  without 
faltering,  *or  perhaps  the  peasants  themselves 
will  want  to  buy  their  freedom.' 

*That  would  be  best  of  all,'  Frau  Lenore 
agreed.  '  Though  indeed  selling  live  people  . .  . ' 

'Barbara'  grumbled  Pantaleone,  who  showed 
himself  behind  Emil  in  the  doorway,  shook  his 
topknot,  and  vanished. 

*Jt's  a  bad  business  ! '  Sanin  thought  to  him- 
self, and  stole  a  look  at  Gemma.  She  seemed 
not  to  have  heard  his  last  words.  *  Well,  never 
mind!'  he  thought  again.  In  this  way  the 
143 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

practical  talk  continued  almost  uninterruptedly 
till  dinner-time.  Frau  Lenore  was  completely 
softened  at  last,  and  already  called  Sanin 
*  Dimitri,'  shook  her  finger  affectionately  at  him, 
and  promised  she  would  punish  him  for  his 
treachery.  She  asked  many  and  minute  ques- 
tions about  his  relations,i3ecause  *  that  too  is 
very  important';  asked  him  to  describe  the 
ceremony  of  marriage  as  performed  by  the 
ritual  of  the  Russian  Church,  and  was  in 
raptures  already  at  Gemma  in  a  white  dress, 
with  a  gold  crown  on  her  head. 

'  She's  as  lovely  as  a  queen,'  she  murmured 
with  motherly  pride,  *  indeed  there 's  no  queen 
like  her  in  the  world  ! ' 

*  There  is  no  one  like  Gemma  in  the  world  ! ' 
Sanin  chimed  in. 

*  Yes ;  that 's  why  she  is  Gemma !  *  (Gemma, 
as  everyone  knows,  means  in  Italian  a  precious 
stone.) 

Gemma  flew  to  kiss  her  mother.  ...  It 
seemed  as  if  only  then  she  breathed  freely 
again,  and  the  load  that  had  been  oppressing 
her  dropped  from  off  her  aoul. 

Sanin  felt  all  at  once  so  happy,  his  heart  was 
filled  with  such  childish  gaiety  at  the  thought, 
that  here,  after  all,  the  dreams  had  come  true  to 
which  he  had  abandoned  himself  not  long  ago 
in  these  very  rooms,  his  whole  being  was  in 
144 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

such  a  turmoil  that  he  went  quickly  out  into 

the  shop.     He  felt  a  great  desire,  come  what 

might,  to  sell  something  in  the  shop,  as  he  had 

done  a  few  days  before.  .  .  .  '  I  have  a  full  right 

to  do  so  now  ! '  he  felt.     '  Why,  I  am  one  of  the 

family  now  ! '     And  he  actually  stood  behind 

rie  counter,  and  actually  kept  shop,  that  is, 

old  two  little  girls,  who  came  in,  a  pound  of 

weets,  giving  them  fully  two  pounds,  and  only 

aking  half  the  price  from  them. 

At  dinner  he  received  an  official  position,  as 
betrothed,  beside  Gemma.  Frau  Lenore  pur- 
sued her  practical  investigations.  Emil  kept 
laughing  and  urging  Sanin  to  take  him  with 
him  to  Russia.  It  was  decided  that  Sanin 
should  set  off  in  a  fortnight.  Only  Pantaleone 
showed  a  somewhat  sullen  face,  so  much  so 
that  Frau  Lenore  reproached  him.  *  And  he 
was  his  second  ! '  Pantaleone  gave  her  a  glance 
from  under  his  brows. 

Gemma  was  silent  almost  all  the  time,  but 
ler  face  had  never  been  lovelier  or  brighter. 
After  dinner  she  called  Sanin  out  a  minute 
into  the  garden,  and  stopping  beside  the  very 
garden-seat  where  she  had  been  sorting  the 
cherries  two  days  before,  she  said  to  him. 
'  Dimitri,  don't  be  angry  with  me  ;  but  I  must 
remind  you  once  more  that  you  are  not  to 
consider  yourself  bound  .  .  .' 
K  145 


THE  TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

He  did  not  let  her  go  on  .  .  . 

Gemma  turned  away  her  face.  '  And  as  for 
what  mamma  spoke  of,  do  you  remember,  the 
difference  of  our  religion — see  here  !  .  .  .' 

She  snatched  the  garnet  cross  that  hung 
round  her  neck  on  a  thin  cord,  gave  it  a  violent 
tug,  snapped  the  cord,  and  handed  him  the 
-<:ross. 

*  If  I  am  yours,  your  faith  is  my  faith ! ' 
Sanin's  eyes  were  still  wet  when  he  went  back 
xtvith  Gemma  into  the  house. 

By  the  evening  everything  went  on  in  its 
accustomed  way.  They  even  played  a  game  of 
tresette, 

XXXI 

Sanin  woke  up  very  early.  He  found  himself 
at  the  highest  pinnacle  of  human  happiness  ; 
but  it  was  not  that  prevented  him  from  sleep- 
ing ;  the  question,  the  vital,  fateful  question — 
how  he  could  dispose  of  his  estate  as  quickly 
and  as  advantageously  as  possible — disturbed 
his  rest.  The  most  diverse  plans  were  mixed 
up  in  his  head,  but  nothing  had  as  yet  come 
out  clearly.  He  went  out  of  the  house  to  get 
air  and  freshen  himself.  He  wanted  to  present 
himself  to  Gemma  with  a  project  ready  pre- 
pared and  not  without. 

146 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

What  was  the  figure,  somewhat  ponderous 

and  thick  in  the  legs,  but  well-dressed,  walking 
in  front  of  him,  with  a  slight  roll  and  waddle 
in  his  gait  ?  Where  had  he  seen  that  head, 
covered  with  tufts  of  flaxen  hair,  and  as  it  were 
set  right  into  the  shoulders,  that  soft  cushiony 
back,  those  plump  arms  hanging  straight  down 
at  his  sides  ?  Could  it  be  Polozov,  his  old 
schoolfellow,  whom  he  had  lost  sight  of  for  the 
last  five  years  ?  Sanin  overtook  the  figure  walk- 
ing in  front  of  him,  turned  round.  ...  A  broad, 
yellowish  face,  little  pig's  eyes,  with  white  lashes 
and  eyebrows,  a  short  flat  nose,  thick  lips  that 
looked  glued  together,  a  round  smooth  chin,  and 
that  expression,  sour,  sluggish,  and  mistrustful 
— yes  ;  it  was  he,  it  was  Ip^olit  Polozov  ! 

*  Isn't  my  lucky  star  workmgfTbr-me  again  ? ' 
flashed  through  Sanin's  mind. 

'  Polozov  !  Ippolit  Sidorovitch  !     Is  it  you  ?  ' 

The  figure  stopped,  raised  his  diminutive 
eyes,  waited  a  little,  and  ungluing  his  lips  at 
last,  brought  out  in  a  rather  hoarse  falsetto, 
'  Dimitri  Sanin?' 

'That's  me!'  cried  Sanin,  and  he  shook  one 
of  Polozov's  hands  ;  arrayed  in  tight  kid-gloves 
of  an  ashen-grey  colour,  they  hung  as  lifeless  as 
before  beside  his  barrel-shaped  legs.  '  Have  you 
been  here  long  ?  Where  have  you  come  from  ? 
Where  are  you  stopping  ? ' 
147 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  I  came  yesterday  from  Wiesbaden,'  Polozov 
replied  in  deliberate  tones,  *  to  do  some  shopping 
for  my  wife,  and  I  'm  going  back  to  Wiesbaden 
to-day.' 

'  Oh,  yes  !  You  're  married,  to  be  sure,  and 
they  say,  to  such  a  beauty  ! ' 

Polozov  turned  his  eyes  away.  'Yes,  they 
say  so.' 

Sanin  laughed.  'I  see  you're  just  the  same 
...  as  phlegmatic  as  you  were  at  school.' 

'  Why  should  I  be  different  ? ' 

*  And  they  do  say,'  Sanin  added  with  special 
emphasis  on  the  word  *  do,'  '  that  your  wife  is 
very  rich.' 

'  They  say  that  too.' 

'Do  you  mean  to  say,  Ippolit  Sidorovitch, 
you  are  not  certain  on  that  point } ' 

*  I  don't  meddle,  my  dear  Dimitri  .  .  .  Pavlo- 
vitch  ?     Yes,  Pavlovitch  ! — in  my  wife's  affairs.' 

'You  don't  meddle?  Not  in  any  of  her 
affairs  ? ' 

Polozov  again  shifted  his  eyes.  '  Not  in  any, 
my  boy.     She  does  as  she  likes,  and  so  do  I.' 

*  Where  are  you  going  now  ? '  Sanin  inquired. 

*  I  'm  not  going  anywhere  just  now ;  I  'm 
standing  in  the  street  and  talking  to  you  ;  but 
when  we  've  finished  talking,  I  'm  going  back 
to  my  hotel,  and  am  going  to  have  lunch.' 

*  Would  you  care  for  my  company  } ' 

148 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  You  mean  at  lunch  ? ' 
*Yes.' 

'  Delighted,  it 's   much  pleasanter   to  eat  in 
company.     You  're  not  a  great  talker,  are  you  ? ' 
'  I  think  not' 

*  So  much  the  better.' 

Polozov  went  on.  Sanin  walked  beside  him. 
And  Sanin  speculated — Polozov's  lips  were 
glued  together,  again  he  snorted  heavily,  and 
waddled  along  in  silence — Sanin  speculated  in 
what  way  had  this  booby  succeeded  in  catching 
a  rich  and  beautiful  wife.  He  was  not  rich  him- 
self, nor  distinguished,  nor  clever ;  at  school  he 
had  passed  for  a  dull,  slow-witted  boy,  sleepy, 
and  greedy,  and  had  borne  the  nickname 
*  driveller.'     It  was  marvellous  ! 

*  But  if  his  wife  is  very  rich,  they  say  she 's 
the  daughter  of  some  sort  of  a  contractor, 
won't  she  buy  my  estate  ?  Though  he  does 
say  he  doesn't  interfere  in  any  of  his  wife's 
affairs,  that  passes  belief,  really  !  Besides,  I  will 
name  a  moderate,  reasonable  price  !  Why  not 
try?  Perhaps,  it's  all  my  lucky  star.  .  .  . 
Resolved  !     I  '11  have  a  try  ! ' 

Polozov  led  Sanin  to  one  of  the  best  hotels 
in  Frankfort,  in  which  he  was,  of  course,  occupy- 
ing the  best  apartments.  On  the  tables  and 
chairs  lay  piles  of  packages,  cardboard  boxes, 
and  parcels.  '  All  purchases,  my  boy,  for  Maria 
149 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Nikolaevna ! '  (that  was  the  name  of  the  wife 
of  Ippolit  Sidorovitch).  Polozov  dropped  into 
an  arm-chair,  groaned,  *  Oh,  the  heat ! '  and 
loosened  his  cravat.  Then  he  rang  up  the  head- 
waiter,  and  ordered  with  intense  care  a  very 
lavish  luncheon.  *  And  at  one,  the  carriage  is 
to  be  ready  !  Do  you  hear,  at  one  o'clock  sharp  ! ' 

The  head-waiter  obsequiously  bowed,  and 
cringingly  withdrew. 

Polozov  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat.  From  the 
very  way  in  which  he  raised  his  eyebrows, 
gasped,  and  wrinkled  up  his  nose,  one  could  see 
that  talking  would  be  a  great  labour  to  him,  and 
that  he  was  waiting  in  some  trepidation  to  see 
whether  Sanin  was  going  to  oblige  him  to  use 
his  tongue,  or  whether  he  would  take  the  task 
of  keeping  up  the  conversation  on  himself. 

Sanin  understood  his  companion's  disposi- 
tion of  mind,  and  so  he  did  not  burden  him 
with  questions  ;  he  restricted  himself  to  the 
most  essential.  He  learnt  that  he  had  been  for 
two  years  in  the  service  (in  the  Uhlans  !  how 
nice  he  must  have  looked  in  the  short  uniform 
jacket !)  that  he  had  married  three  years  before, 
and  had  now  been  for  two  years  abroad  with  his 
wife,  '  who  is  now  undergoing  some  sort  of  cure 
at  Wiesbaden,'  and  was  then  going  to  Paris. 
On  his  side  too,  Sanin  did  not  enlarge  much  on 
his  past  life  and  his  plans  ;  he  went  straight  to 
150 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

the  principal  point — that  is,  he  began  talking 
of  his  intention  of  selling  his  estate. 

Polozov  listened  to  him  in  silence,  his  eyes 
straying  from  time  to  time  to  the  door,  by 
which  the  luncheon  was  to  appear.  The 
luncheon  did  appear  at  last.  The  head-waiter, 
accompanied  by  two  other  attendants,  brought 
in  several  dishes  under  silver  covers. 

*  Is  the  property  in  the  Tula  province  ? '  said 
Polozov,  seating  himself  at  the  table,  and  tuck- 
ing a  napkin  into  his  shirt  collar. 

'  Yes.' 

*  In  the  Efremovsky  district  ...  I  know  it' 

'  Do  you  know  my  place,  Aleksyevka  ? ' 
Sanin  asked,  sitting  down  too  at  the  table. 

*Yes,  I  know  it.'  Polozov  thrust  in  his 
mouth  a  piece  of  omelette  with  truffles.  '  Maria 
Nikolaevna,  my  wife,  has  an  estate  in  that 
neighbourhood.  .  .  .  Uncork  that  bottle,  waiter  ! 
You  've  a  good  piece  of  land,  only  your  peasants 
have  cut  down  the  timber.  "Why  are  you 
selling  it?' 

'  I  want  the  money,  my  friend.  I  would  sell 
it  cheap.  Come,  you  might  as  well  buy  it  .  .  . 
by  the  way.' 

Polozov  gulped  down  a  glass  of  wine,  wiped 
his  lips  with  the  napkin,  and  again  set  to  work 
chewing  slowly  and  noisily. 

'  Oh,'  he  enunciated  at  last.  ...  *  I  don't  go 
151 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

in  for  buying  estates ;  I  've  no  capital.  Pass  the 
butter.  Perhaps  my  wife  now  would  buy  it.  You 
talk  to  her  about  it.  If  you  don't  ask  too  much, 
she  's  not  above  thinking  of  that.  .  .  .  What  asses 
these  Germans  are,  really  !  They  can't  cook  fish. 
What  could  be  simpler,  one  wonders?  And 
yet  they  go  on  about  "  uniting  the  Fatherland." 
Waiter,  take  away  that  beastly  stuff! ' 

'  Does  your  wife  really  manage  .  .  .  business 
matters  herself?'  Sanin  inquired. 

'  Yes.  Try  the  cutlets — they  're  good.  I  can 
recommend  them.  I  've  told  you  already, 
Dimitri  Pavlovitch,  I  don't  interfere  in  any  of 
my  wife's  concerns,  and  I  tell  you  so  again.' 

Polozov  went  on  munching. 

'  H'm.  .  .  .  But  how  can  I  have  a  talk  with 
her,  Ippolit  Sidoritch  ? ' 

*  It 's  very  simple,  Dimitri  Pavlovitch.  Go  to 
Wiesbaden.  It's  not  far  from  here.  Waiter, 
haven't  you  any  English  mustard  ?  No  ? 
Brutes  !  Only  don't  lose  any  time.  We  're 
starting  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Let  me 
pour  you  out  a  glass  of  wine  ;  it's  wine  with  a 
bouquet — no  vinegary  stuff' 

Polozov's  face  was  flushed  and  animated  ;  it 
was  never  animated  but  when  he  was  eating 
— or  drinking. 

'  Really,   I   don't   know,   how   that  could   be 
managed,'  Sanin  muttered. 
152 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  But  what  makes  you  in  such  a  hurry  about 
it  all  of  a  sudden  ? ' 

*  There  is  a  reason  for  being  in  a  hurry, 
brother.' 

*  And  do  you  need  a  lot  of  money  ? ' 

*  Yes,  a  lot.  I  .  .  .  how  can  I  tell  you  ?  I 
propose  .  .  .  getting  married.' 

Polozov  set  the  glass  he  had  been  lifting  to 
his  lips  on  the  table. 

'  Getting  married  ! '  he  articulated  in  a  voice 
thick  with  astonishment,  and  he  folded  his 
podgy  hands  on  his  stomach.     '  So  suddenly  ? ' 

'Yes  .  .  .  soon.' 

'Your  intended  is  in  Russia,  of  course  .?' 

*  No,  not  in  Russia.' 
'  Where  then  ? ' 

*  Here  in  Frankfort' 

*  And  who  is  she  ? ' 

'A  German;  that  is,  no — an  Italian.  A 
resident  here.' 

'  With  a  fortune  ? ' 

*  No,  without  a  fortune.' 

*Then  I  suppose  your  love  is  very  ar- 
dent ? ' 

'  How  absurd  you  are  !     Yes,  very  ardent.' 
'  And  it 's  for  that  you  must  have  money  ?' 

*  Well,  yes  .  .  .  yes,  yes.' 

Polozov   gulped   down  his   wine,  rinsed   his 
mouth,  and  washed  his  hands,  carefully  wiped 
153 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

them  on  the  napkin,  took  out  and  lighted  a 
cigar.    Sanin  watched  him  in  silence. 

*  There 's  one  means/  Polozov  grunted  at  last, 
throwing  his  head  back,  and  blowing  out  the 
smoke  in  a  thin  ring.  'Go  to  my  wife.  If  she 
likes,  she  can  take  all  the  bother  off  your 
hands.' 

*  But  how  can  I  see  your  wife  ?  You  say  you 
are  starting  the  day  after  to-morrow  ?  ' 

Polozov  closed  his  eyes. 

*  I  '11  tell  you  what/  he  said  at  last,  rolling  the 
cigar  in  his  lips,  and  sighing.  *  Go  home,  get 
ready  as  quick  as  you  can,  and  come  here.  At 
one  o'clock  I  am  going,  there 's  plenty  of  room 
in  my  carriage.  I  '11  take  you  with  me.  That 's 
the  best  plan.  And  now  I  'm  going  to  have  a 
nap.  I  must  always  have  a  nap,  brother,  after 
a  meal.  Nature  demands  it,  and  I  won't  go 
against  it.     And  don't  you  disturb  me.' 

Sanin  thought  and  thought,  and  suddenly 
raised  his  head  ;  he  had  made  up  his  mind. 

'  Very  well,  agreed,  and  thank  you.  At  half- 
past  twelve  I  '11  be  here,  and  we  '11  go  together 
to  Wiesbaden.  I  hope  your  wife  won't  be 
angry.  .  .  .' 

But  Polozov  was  already  snoring.  He 
muttered,  '  Don't  disturb  me  ! '  gave  a  kick,  and 
fell  asleep,  like  a  baby. 

Sanin  once  more  scanned  his  clumsy  figure, 
154 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

his  head,  his  neck,  his  upturned  chin,  round  as 
an  apple,  and  going  out  of  the  hotel,  set  off 
with  rapid  strides  to  the  Rosellis'  shop.  He 
had  to  let  Gemma  know. 


XXXII 

He  found  her  in  the  shop  with  her  mother. 
Frau  Lenore  was  stooping  down,  measuring 
with  a  big  folding  foot-rule  the  space  between 
the  windows.  On  seeing  Sanin,  she  stood  up, 
and  greeted  him  cheerfully,  though  with  a  shade 
of  embarrassment. 

*  What  you  said  yesterday,'  she  began,  '  has 
set  my  head  in  a  whirl  with  ideas  as  to  how  we 
could  improve  our  shop.  Here,  I  fancy  we 
might  put  a  couple  of  cupboards  with  shelves 
of  looking-glass.  You  know,  that 's  the  fashion 
nowadays.     And  then  .  .  .' 

*  Excellent,  excellent,'  Sanin  broke  in,  *  we 
must  think  it  all  over.  .  .  .  But  come  here,  I 
want  to  tell  you  something.'  He  took  Frau 
Lenore  and  Gemma  by  the  arm,  and  led  them 
into  the  next  room.  Frau  Lenore  was  alarmed, 
and  the  foot-rule  slipped  out  of  her  hands. 
Gemma  too  was  almost  frightened,  but  she  took 
an  intent  look  at  Sanin,  and  was  reassured. 
His  face,  though  preoccupied,  expressed  at  the 

155 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

same  time  keen  self-confidence  and  determina- 
tion. 

He  asked  both  the  women  to  sit  down,  while 
he  remained  standing  before  them,  and  ges- 
ticulating with  his  hands  and  ruffling  up  his 
hair,  he  told  them  all  his  story ;  his  meeting 
with  Polozov,  his  proposed  expedition  to 
Wiesbaden,  the  chance  of  selling  the  estate. 
'  Imagine  my  happiness,'  he  cried  in  conclusion  : 
'  things  have  taken  such  a  turn  that  I  may  even, 
perhaps,  not  have  to  go  to  Russia !  And  we 
can  have  our  wedding  much  sooner  than  I  had 
anticipated ! ' 

*  When  must  you  go?'  asked  Gemma. 

*  To-day,  in  an  hour's  time ;  my  friend  has 
ordered  a  carriage — he  will  take  me.' 

*  You  will  write  to  us  ?  ' 

*  At  once !  directly  I  have  had  a  talk  with 
this  lady,  I  will  write.' 

'  This  lady,  you  say,  is  very  rich  ?  '  queried 
the  practical  Frau  Lenore. 

'  Exceedingly  rich !  her  father  was  a  mil- 
lionaire, and  he  left  everything  to  her.' 

'Everything — to  her  alone?  Well,  that's  so 
much  the  better  for  you.  Only  mind,  don't  let 
your  property  go  too  cheap  !  Be  sensible  and 
firm.  Don't  let  yourself  be  carried  away !  I 
understand  your  wishing  to  be  Gemma's 
husband  as  soon  as  possible  .  .  .  but  prudence 
156 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

before  everything !  Don't  forget :  the  better 
price  you  get  for  your  estate,  the  more  there 
will  be  for  you  two,  and  for  your  children.' 

Gemma  turned  away,  and  Sanin  gave  another 
wave  of  his  hand.  'You  can  rely  on  my 
prudence,  Frau  Lenore !  Indeed,  I  shan't  do 
any  bargaining  with  her.  I  shall  tell  her  the 
fair  price  ;  if  she  '11  give  it — good  ;  if  not,  let 
her  go.' 

*  Do  you  know  her — this  lady  ? '  asked 
Gemma. 

'  I  have  never  seen  her.' 

*  And  when  will  you  come  back  ?  ' 

'  If  our  negotiations  come  to  nothing — the 
day  after  to-morrow ;  if  they  turn  out  favour- 
ably, perhaps  I  may  have  to  stay  a  day  or  two 
longer.  In  any  case  I  shall  not  linger  a  minute 
beyond  what's  necessary.  I  am  leaving  my 
heart  here,  you  know !  But  I  have  said  what  I 
had  to  say  to  you,  and  I  must  run  home  before 
setting  off  too.  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand  for 
luck,  Frau  Lenore — that 's  what  we  always  do 
in  Russia.' 

*  The  right  or  the  left  ? ' 

*The  left,  it's  nearer  the  heart.  I  shall 
reappear  the  day  after  to-morrow  with  my  shield 
or  on  it!  Something  tells  me  I  shall  come 
back  in  triumph !  Good-bye,  my  good  dear 
ones.  .  .  .' 

157 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

He  embraced  and  kissed  Frau  Lenore,  but 
he  asked  Gemma  to  follow  him  into  her  room 
— for  just  a  minute — as  he  must  tell  her  some- 
thing of  great  importance.  He  simply  wanted 
to  say  good-bye  to  her  alone.  Frau  Lenore 
saw  that,  and  felt  no  curiosity  as  to  the  matter 
of  such  great  importance. 

Sanin  had  never  been  in  Gemma's  room 
before.  All  the  magic  of  love,  all  its  fire  and 
rapture  and  sweet  terror,  seemed  to  flame  up 
and  burst  into  his  soul,  directly  he  crossed  its 
sacred  threshold.  .  .  .  He  cast  a  look  of  ten- 
derness about  him,  fell  at  the  sweet  girl's  feet 
and  pressed  his  face  against  her  waist.  .  .  . 

'  You  are  mine,'  she  whispered  :  *  you  will 
be  back  soon  ? ' 

*  I  am  yours.  I  will  come  back,'  he  declared, 
catching  his  breath. 

'  I  shall  be  longing  for  you  back,  my  dear 
one! ' 

A  few  instants  later  Sanin  was  running  along 
the  street  to  his  lodging.  He  did  not  even 
notice  that  Pantaleone,  all  dishevelled,  had 
darted  out  of  the  shop-door  after  him,  and  was 
shouting  something  to  him  and  was  shaking, 
as  though  in  menace,  his  lifted  hand. 

Exactly  at  a  quarter  to  one  Sanin  presented 
himself  before   Polozov.      The   carriage   with 
158 


THE   TORRENTS   OF  SPRING 

four  horses  was  already  standing  at  the  hotel 
gates.  On  seeing  Sanin,  Polozov  merely  com- 
mented, '  Oh  !  you  've  made  up  your  mind  ? ' 
and  putting  on  his  hat,  cloak,  and  over-shoes, 
and  stuffing  cotton-wool  into  his  ears,  though 
it  was  summer-time,  went  out  on  to  the  steps. 
The  waiters,  by  his  directions,  disposed  all  his 
numerous  purchases  in  the  inside  of  the 
carriage,  lined  the  place  where  he  was  to  sit 
with  silk  cushions,  bags,  and  bundles,  put  a 
hamper  of  provisions  for  his  feet  to  rest  on, 
and  tied  a  trunk  on  to  the  box.  Polozov  paid 
with  a  liberal  hand,  and  supported  by  the 
deferential  door-keeper,  whose  face  was  still 
respectful,  though  he  was  unseen  behind  him, 
he  climbed  gasping  into  the  carriage,  sat  down, 
disarranged  everything  about  him  thoroughly, 
took  out  and  lighted  a  cigar,  and  only  then 
extended  a  finger  to  Sanin,  as  though  to  say, 
'  Get  in,  you  too  ! '  Sanin  placed  himself  beside 
him.  Polozov  sent  orders  by  the  door-keeper 
to  the  postillion  to  drive  carefully — if  he  wanted 
drinks  ;  the  carriage  steps  grated,  the  doors 
slammed,  and  the  carriage  rolled  off. 

XXXIII 

It  takes  less  than  an  hour  in  these  days  by  rail 
from   Frankfort  to  Wiesbaden  ;    at  that  time 

159 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

the  extra  post  did  it  in  three  hours.  They 
changed  horses  five  times.  Part  of  the  time 
Polozov  dozed  and  part  of  the  time  he  simply 
shook  from  side  to  side,  holding  a  cigar  in  his 
teeth ;  he  talked  very  little  ;  he  did  not  once 
look  out  of  the  window  ;  picturesque  views  did 
not  interest  them;  he  even  announced  that 
*  nature  was  the  death  of  him  ! '  Sanin  did  not 
speak  either,  nor  did  he  admire  the  scenery ; 
he  had  no  thought  for  it.  He  was  all  absorbed 
in  reflections  and  memories.  At  the  stations 
Polozov  paid  with  exactness,  took  the  time  by 
his  watch,  and  tipped  the  postillions — more  or 
less — according  to  their  zeal.  When  they  had 
gone  half  way,  he  took  two  oranges  out  of  the 
hamper  of  edibles,  and  choosing  out  the  better, 
offered  the  other  to  Sanin.  Sanin  looked 
steadily  at  his  companion,  and  suddenly  burst 
out  laughing. 

'What  are  you  laughing  at?'  the  latter 
inquired,  very  carefully  peeling  his  orange  with 
his  short  white  nails. 

'  What  at  ? '  repeated  Sanin.  '  Why,  at  our 
journey  together.' 

'What  about  it?'  Polozov  inquired  again, 
dropping  into  his  mouth  one  of  the  longitudinal 
sections  into  which  an  orange  parts. 

*It's  so  very  strange.  Yesterday  I  must 
confess  I  thought  no  more  of  you  than  of  the 
1 60 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Emperor  of  China,  and  to-day  I  'm  driving 
with  you  to  sell  my  estate  to  your  wife,  of 
whom,  too,  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea.' 

'  Anything  may  happen,'  responded  Polozov. 
*  When  you  've  lived  a  bit  longer,  you  won't  be 
surprised  at  anything.  For  instance,  can  you 
fancy  me  riding  as  an  orderly  officer  ?  But  I 
did,  and  the  Grand  Duke  Mihail  Pavlovitch 
gave  the  order,  '  Trot !  let  him  trot,  that  fat 
cornet !     Trot  now  !     Look  sharp  ! ' 

Sanin  scratched  behind  his  ear. 

'  Tell  me,  please,  Ippolit  Sidorovitch,  what 
is  your  wife  like  ?  What  is  her  character  .^ 
It 's  very  necessary  for  me  to  know  that,  you 
see.' 

'  It  was  very  well  for  him  to  shout,  "  Trot ! "  ' 
Polozov  went  on  with  sudden  vehemence,  '  But 
me !  how  about  me  ?  I  thought  to  myself, 
"  You  can  take  your  honours  and  epaulettes — 
and  leave  me  in  peace  ! "  But  .  .  .  you  asked 
about  my  wife  ?  VVhat  my  wife  is  ?  A  p.erspjn 
like.,any  one  else.  Don't  wear  your  hearljipao. 
your  sleeve  with  her — she  doesn't  like  that. 
The  great  thing  is  to  talk  a  lot  to  her  I  ~~ 
something  for  her  to  laugh  at.  Tell  her  about 
your  love,  or  something  .  .  .  but  make  it  more 
amusing,  you  know.' 

'  How  more  amusing  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  you  told  me,  you  know,  that  you  were 
L  i6i 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

in  love,  wanting  to  get  married.  Well,  then, 
describe  that.' 

Sanin  was  offended.  'What  do  you  find 
laughable  in  that  ? ' 

Polozov  only  rolled  his  eyes.  The  juice  from 
the  orange  was  trickling  down  his  chin. 

*  Was  it  your  wife  sent  you  to  Frankfort  to 
shop  for  her  ? '  asked  Sanin  after  a  short  time. 

*  Yes,  it  was  she.' 

*  What  are  the  purchases  ? ' 
'  Toys,  of  course.' 

'  Toys  ?  have  you  any  children  ?  ' 

Polozov  positively  moved  away  from  Sanin. 
'  That 's  likely !  What  do  I  want  with  children  ? 
Feminine  fallals  .  .  .  finery.     For  the  toilet.' 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  understand  such 
things?' 

'  To  be  sure  I  do.' 

'  But  didn't  you  tell  me  you  didn't  interfere 
in  any  of  your  wife's  affairs  ?  ' 

*  I  don't  in  any  other.  But  this  ...  is  no 
consequence.  To  pass  the  time — one  may  do 
it.  And  my  wife  has  confidence  in  my  taste. 
And  I  'm  a  first-rate  hand  at  bargaining.' 

Polozov  began  to  speak  by  jerks  ;  he  was 
exhausted  already. 

*  And  is  your  wife  very  rich  ?  ' 

'  Rich  ;  yes,  rather !  Only  she  keeps  the 
most  of  it  for  herself 

162 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'But  I  expect  you  can't  complain  either?  ' 

*  Well,  I  'm  her  husband.  I  'm  hardly  likely 
not  to  get  some  benefit  from  it !  And  I  'm  of 
use  to  her.  With  me  she  can  do  just  as  she 
likes  !     I  'm  easy-going  ! ' 

Polozov  wiped  his  face  with  a  silk  handker- 
chief and  puffed  painfully,  as  though  to  say, 
'  Have  mercy  on  me  ;  don't  force  me  to  utter 
another  word.     You  see  how  hard  it  is  for  me.' 

Sanin  left  him  in  peace,  and  again  sank  into 
meditation. 

The  hotel  in  Wiesbaden,  before  which  the 
carriage  stopped,  was  exactly  like  a  palace. 
Bells  were  promptly  set  ringing  in  its  inmost 
recesses  ;  a  fuss  and  bustle  arose  ;  men  of  good 
appearance  in  black  frock-coats  skipped  out  at 
the  principal  entrance  ;  a  door-keeper  who  was 
a  blaze  of  gold  opened  the  carriage  doors  with 
a  flourish. 

Like  some  triumphant  general  Polozov 
alighted  and  began  to  ascend  a  staircase 
strewn  with  rugs  and  smelling  of  agreeable 
perfumes.  To  him  flew  up  another  man,  also 
very  well  dressed  but  with  a  Russian  face — his 
valet.  Polozov  observed  to  him  that  for  the 
future  he  should  always  take  him  everywhere 
with  him,  for  the  night  before  at  Frankfort,  he, 
Polozov,  had  been  left  for  the  night  without 
163 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

hot  water  !     The  valet  portrayed  his  horror  on 

his  face,  and  bending  down  quickly,  took  off 

his  master's  goloshes. 

'  Is  Maria  Nikolaevna  at  home  ? '    inquired 

Polozov. 

*  Yes,  sir.     Madam  is  pleased  to  be  dressing. 

Madam  is  pleased  to  be  dining  to-night  at  the 

Countess  Lasunsky's.' 

'  Ah  !  there  ?  .  .  .  Stay !  There  are  things 
there  in  the  carnage;  get  them  all  yourself 
and  bring  them  up.  And  you,  Dmitri  Pavlo- 
vitch,'  added  Polozov, '  take  a  room  for  yourself 
and  come  in  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  We 
will  dine  together.' 

Polozov  waddled  off,  while  Sanin  asked  for 
an  inexpensive  room  for  himself;  and  after 
setting  his  attire  to  rights,  and  resting  a  little, 
he  repaired  to  the  immense  apartment  occu- 
pied by  his  Serenity  (Durchlaucht)  Prince  von 
Polozov. 

He  found  this  *  prince '  enthroned  in  a  luxuri- 
ous velvet  arm-chair  in  the  middle  of  a  most 
magnificent  drawing-room.  Sanin's  phlegmatic 
friend  had  already  had  time  to  have  a  bath 
and  to  array  himself  in  a  most  sumptuous 
satin  dressing-gown ;  he  had  put  a  crimson 
fez  on  his  head.  Sanin  approached  him  and 
scrutinised  him  for  some  time.  Polozov  was 
sitting  rigid  as  an  idol  ;  he  did  not  even  turn 
164 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

his  face  in  his  direction,  did  not  even  move  an 
eyebrow,  did  not  utter  a  sound.  It  was  truly 
a  sublime  spectacle !  After  having  admired 
him  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  Sanin  was  on  the 
point  of  speaking,  of  breaking  this  hallowed 
silence,  when  suddenly  the  door  from  the  next 
room  was  thrown  open,  and  in  the  doorway 
appeared  a  young  and  beautiful  lady  in  a  white 
silk  dress  trimmed  with  black  lace,  and  with 
diamonds  on  her  arms  and  nqck^^  Maria 
1  N*i«olaevna  Polozov.  Her  thick  fair  hairTeih 
•^on  both  sides  of  her  head,  braided,  but  not 
fastened  up  into  a  knot. 


XXXIV 

*  Ah,  I  beg  your  pardon  ! '  she  said  with  a  smile 
half-embarrassed,  half-ironical,  instantly  taking 
hold  of  one  end  of  a  plait  of  her  hair  ai^d 
fastening  on  Sanin  her  large,  grey,  clear  eyes. 
'  I  did  not  think  you  had  come  yet.' 

'  Sanin,  Dmitri  Pavlovitch — known  him  from 
a  boy,'  observed  Polozov,  as  before  not  turning 
towards  him  and  not  getting  up,  but  pointing 
at  him  with  one  finger. 

'  Yes.  ...  I  know.  .  .  .  You  told  me  before. 
Very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance.  But  I 
wanted  to  ask  you,  Ippolit  Sidorovitch.   .    .    . 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

My  maid  seems  to  have  lost  her  senses  to- 
day .  .  .' 

'  To  do  your  hair  up  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  please.  I  beg  your  pardon,'  Maria 
Nikolaevna  repeated  with  the  same  smile.  She 
nodded  to  Sanin,  and  turning  swiftly,  vanished 
through  the  doorway,  leaving  behind  her  a 
fleeting  but  graceful  impression  of  a  charming 
neck,  exquisite  shoulders,  an  exquisite  figure. 

Polozov  got  up,  and  rolling  ponderously, 
went  out  by  the  same  door. 

Sanin  did  not  doubt  for  a  single  second  that 
his  presence  in  '  Prince  Polozov's '  drawing- 
room  was  a  fact  perfectly  well  known  to  its 
mistress ;  the  whole  point  of  her  entry  had 
been  the  display  of  her  hair,  which  was  cer- 
tainly beautiful.  Sanin  was  inwardly  delighted 
indeed  at  this  freak  on  the  part  of  Madame 
Polozov ;  if,  he  thought,  she  is  anxious  to 
impress  me,  to  dazzle  me,  perhaps,  who 
knows,  she  will  be  accommodating  about  the 
price  of  the  estate.  His  heart  was  so  full  of 
Gemma  that  all  other  women  had  absolutely 
no  significance  for  him  ;  he  hardly  noticed 
them  ;  and  this  time  he  went  no  further  than 
thinking,  'Yes,  it  was  the  truth  they  told  me  ; 
that  lady's  really  magnificent  to  look  at!' 

But  had  he  not  been  in  such  an  exceptional 
state  of  mind  he  would  most  likely  have  ex- 
i66 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

pressed  himself  differently ;  Maria  Nikolaevna 
Polozov,  by  birth  Kolishkin,  was  a  very  striking 
personality.  And  not  that  she  was  of  a  beauty 
to  which  no  exception  could  be  taken  ;  traces 
of  her  plebeian  origin  were  rather  clearly  ap- 
parent in  her.  Her  forehead  was  low,  her  nose 
rather  fleshy  and  turned  up  ;  she  could  boast 
neither  of  the  delicacy  of  her  skin  nor  of  the 
elegance  of  her  hands  and  feet — but  what  did 
all  that  matter  ?  Any  one  meeting  her  would 
not,  to  use  Pushkin's  words,  have  stood  still 
before  '  the  holy  shrine  of  beauty,'  but  before 
the  sorcery  of  a  half  -  Russian,  half- Gipsy 
woman's  body  in  its  full  flower  and  full 
power  .  .  .  and  he  would  have  been  nothing 
loath  to  stand  still ! 

But  Gemma's  image  preserved  Sanin  like 
the  three-fold  armour  of  which  the  poets  sing. 

Ten  minutes  later  Maria  Nikolaevna  ap- 
peared again,  escorted  by  her  husband.  She 
went  up  to  Sanin  .  .  .  and  her  walk  was  such 
that  some  eccentrics  of  that — alas  ! — already 
distant  day,  were  simply  crazy  over  her  walk 
alone.  '  That  woman,  when  she  comes  towards 
one,  seems  as  though  she  is  bringing  all  the 
happiness  of  one's  life  to  meet  one,'  one  of  them 
used  to  say.  She  went  up  to  Sanin,  and  hold- 
ing out  her  hand  to  him,  said  in  her  caressing 
and,  as  it  were,  subdued  voice  in  Russian, 
167 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

'  You  will  wait  for  me,  won't  you  ?  I  '11  be  back 
soon.' 

Sanin  bowed  respectfully,  while  Maria  Niko- 
laevna  vanished  behind  the  curtain  over  the 
outside  door ;  and  as  she  vanished  turned  her 
head  back  over  her  shoulder,  and  smiled 
again,  and  again  left  behind  her  the  same  im- 
pression of  grace. 

When  she  smiled,  not  one  and  not  two,  but 
three  dimples  came  out  on  each  cheek,  and  her 
eyes  smiled  more  than  her  lips — long,  crimson, 
juicy  lips  with  two  tiny  moles  on  the  left  side 
of  them. 

Polozov  waddled  into  the  room  and  again 
established  himself  in  the  arm-chair.  He  was 
speechless  as  before  ;  but  from  time  to  time 
a  queer  smile  puffed  out  his  colourless  and 
already  wrinkled  cheeks.  He  looked  like  an 
old  man,  though  he  was  only  three  years  older 
than  Sanin. 

The  dinner  with  which  he  regaled  his  guest 
would  of  course  have  satisfied  the  most  exacting 
gourmand,  but  to  Sanin  it  seemed  endless, 
insupportable  !  Polozov  ate  slowly,  *  with 
feeling,  with  judgment,  with  deliberation,' 
bending  attentively  over  his  plate,  and  sniffing 
at  almost  every  morsel.  First  he  rinsed  his 
mouth  with  wine,  then  swallowed  it  and  smacked 
his  lips.  .  .  .  Over  the  roast  moat  he  suddenly 
1 68 


THE   TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

began  to  talk — but  of  what  ?  Of  merino  sheep, 
of  which  he  was  intending  to  order  a  whole 
flock,  and  in  such  detail,  with  such  tenderness, 
using  all  the  while  endearing  pet  names  for 
them.  After  drinking  a  cup  of  coffee,  hot  to 
boiling  point  (he  had  several  times  in  a  voice 
of  tearful  irritation  mentioned  to  the  waiter 
that  he  had  been  served  the  evening  before 
with  coffee,  cold — cold  as  ice !)  and  bitten  off 
the  end  of  a  Havannah  cigar  with  his  crooked 
yellow  teeth,  he  dropped  off,  as  his  habit  was, 
into  a  nap,  to  the  intense  delight  of  Sanin,  who 
began  walking  up  and  down  with  noiseless 
steps  on  the  soft  carpet,  and  dreaming  of  his 
life  with  Gemma  and  of  what  news  he  would 
bring  back  to  her.  Polozov,  however,  awoke, 
as  he  remarked  himself,  earlier  than  usual — he 
had  slept  only  an  hour  and  a  half — and  after 
drinking  a  glass  of  iced  seltzer  water,  and 
swallowing  eight  spoonfuls  of  jam,  Russian 
jam,  which  his  valet  brought  him  in  a  dark- 
green  genuine  'Kiev'  jar,  and  without  which, 
in  his  own  words,  he  could  not  live,  he  stared 
with  his  swollen  eyes  at  Sanin  and  asked  him 
wouldn't  he  like  to  play  a  game  of  '  fools  '  with 
him.  Sanin  agreed  readily ;  he  was  afraid 
that  Polozov  would  begin  talking  again  about 
lambs  and  ew^es  and  fat  tails.  The  host  and 
the  visitor  both  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room, 
169 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

the  waiter  brought  in  the  cards,  and  the  game 
began,  not, — of  course,  for  money. 

At  this  innocent  diversion  Maria  Nikolaevna 
found  them  on  her  return  from  the  Countess 
Lasunsky's.  She  laughed  aloud  directly  she 
came  into  the  room  and  saw  the  cards  and  the 
open  card-table.  Sanin  jumped  up,  but  she 
cried,  *  Sit  still ;  go  on  with  the  game.  I  '11 
change  my  dress  directly  and  come  back  to 
you,'  and  vanished  again  with  a  swish  of  her 
dress,  pulling  off  her  gloves  as  she  went. 

She  did  in  fact  return  very  soon.  Her 
evening  dress  she  had  exchanged  for  a  full 
lilac  silk  tea-gown,  with  open  hanging  sleeves  ; 
a  thick  twisted  cord  was  fastened  round  her 
waist.  She  sat  down  by  her  husband,  and, 
waiting  till  he  was  left  *  fool,'  said  to  him, 
'  Come,  dumpling,  that 's  enough  ! '  (At  the 
word  'dumpling'  Sanin  glanced  at  her  in  sur- 
prise, and  she  smiled  gaily,  answering  his  look 
with  a  look,  and  displaying  all  the  dimples  on 
her  cheeks.)  *  I  see  you  are  sleepy  ;  kiss  my 
hand  and  get  along  ;  and  Monsieur  Sanin  and 
I  will  have  a  chat  together  alone.' 

'  I  'm  not  sleepy,'  observed  Polozov,  getting 
up  ponderously  from  his  easy-chair  ;  '  but  as 
for  getting  along,  I  'm  ready  to  get  along  and 
to  kiss  your  hand.'  She  gave  him  the  palm  of 
her  hand,  still  smiling  and  looking  at  Sanin. 
170 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Polozov,  too,  looked  at  him,  and  went  away 
without  taking  leave  of  him. 

'  Well,  tell  me,  tell  me,'  said  Maria  Nikolaevna 
eagerly,  setting  both  her  bare  elbows  on  the 
table  and  impatiently  tapping  the  nails  of  one 
hand  against  the  nails  of  the  other,  '  Is  it  true, 
they  say,  you  are  going  to  be  married  ? ' 

As  she  said  these  words,  Maria  Nikolaevna 
positively  bent  her  head  a  little  on  one  side  so 
as  to  look  more  intently  and  piercingly  into 
Sanin's  eyes. 


XXXV 

The  free  and  easy  deportment  of  Madame 
Polozov  would  probably  for  the  first  moment 
have  disconcerted  Sanin — though  he  was  not 
quite  a  novice  and  had  knocked  about  the 
world  a  little — if  he  had  not  again  seen  in  this 
very  freedom  and  familiarity  a  good  omen  for 
his  undertaking.  *  We  must  humour  this  rich 
lady's  caprices,'  he  decided  inwardly  ;  and  as 
unconstrainedly  as  she  had  questioned  him  he 
answered,  '  Yes  ;  I  am  going  to  be  married.' 

'  To  whom  ?     To  a  foreigner  ?  ' 

'Yes.' 

'  Did  you   get  acquainted  with   her  lately  ? 
In  Frankfort  ? ' 

171 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  Yes.' 

*  And  what  is  she  ?     May  I  know  ? ' 

*  Certainly.    She  is  a  confectioner's  daughter.' 
Maria  Nikolaevna  opened  her  eyes  wide  and 

lifted  her  eyebrows. 

'  Why,  this  is  delightful,'  she  commented  in 
a  drawling  voice ;  *  this  is  exquisite  !  I  imagined 
that  young  men  like  you  were  not  to  be  met 
with  anywhere  in  these  days.  A  confectioner's 
daughter  ! ' 

*  I  see  that  surprises  you,'  observed  Sanin 
with  some  dignity ;  *  but  in  the  first  place,  I 
have  none  of  these  prejudices  .  .  .' 

'  In  the  first  place,  it  doesn't  surprise  me  in 
the  least,'  Maria  Nikolaevna  interrupted ;  '  I 
have  no  prejudices  either.  I  'm  the  daughter 
of  a  peasant  myself  There !  what  can  you 
say  to  that  ?  What  does  surprise  and  delight 
me  is  to  have  come  across  a  man  who 's  not 
afraid  to  love.     You  do  love  her,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

*  Is  she  very  pretty  ? ' 

Sanin  was  slightly  stung  by  this  last  ques- 
tion. .  .  .  However,  there  was  no  drawing  back. 

'You  know,  Maria  Nikolaevna,'  he  began, 
'  every  man  thinks  the  face  of  his  beloved 
better  than  all  others  ;  but  my  betrothed  is 
really  beautiful.' 

'  Really  ?  In  what  style  ?  Italian  ?  antique  ?  ' 
172 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  Yes  ;  she  has  very  regular  features.' 

'  You  have  not  got  her  portrait  with  you  ? ' 

*  No.'  (At  that  time  photography  was  not 
yet  talked  off.  Daguerrotypes  had  hardly 
begun  to  be  common.) 

'  What 's  her  name  ? ' 

'  Her  name  is  Gemma.' 

'And  yours?' 

'  Dimitri.' 

'  And  your  father's  ? ' 

'  Pavlovitch.' 

'  Do  you  know,'  Maria  Nikolaevna  said,  still 
in  the  same  drawling  voice,  '  I  like  you  very 
much,  Dimitri  Pavlovitch.  You  must  be  an 
excellent  fellow.  Give  me  your  hand.  Let  us 
be  friends.' 

She  pressed  his  hand  tightly  in  her  beautiful, 
white,  strong  fingers.  Her  hand  was  a  little 
smaller  than  his  hand,  but  much  warmer  and 
smoother  and  whiter  and  more  full  of  life. 

'  Only,  do  you  know  what  strikes  me  ? ' 

•What?' 

'You  won't  be  angry?  No?  You  say  she 
is  betrothed  to  you.  But  was  that  .  .  .  was 
that  quite  necessary?' 

Sanin  frowned.  *  I  don't  understand  you, 
Maria  Nikolaevna.' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  gave  a  soft  low  laugh,  and 
shaking  her  head  tossed  back  the  hair  that  was 
173 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

falling  on  her  cheeks.  '  Decidedly — he 's  de- 
lightful/ she  commented  half  pensively,  half 
carelessly.  *  A  perfect  knight !  After  that, 
there 's  no  believing  in  the  people  who  main- 
tain that  the  race  of  idealists  is  extinct ! ' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  talked  Russian  all  the 
time,  an  astonishingly  pure  true  Moscow 
Russian,  such  as  the  people,  not  the  nobles 
speak. 

'  You  've  been  brought  up  at  home,  I  expect, 
in  a  God-fearing,  old  orthodox  family?'  she 
queried.     '  You  're  from  what  province  ?  ' 

'  Tula.' 

*  Oh !  so  we  're  from  the  same  part.  My 
father  ...  I  daresay  you  know  who  my  father 
was?' 

'  Yes,  I  know.' 

'  He  was  born  in  Tula.  .  .  .  He  was  a  Tula 
man.  Well  .  .  .  well.  Come,  let  us  get  to 
business  now.' 

'That  is  .  .  .  how  come  to  business?  What 
do  you  mean  to  say  by  that  ?  ' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  half-closed  her  eyes. 
*  Why,  what  did  you  come  here  for  ?  '  (when  she 
screwed  up  her  eyes,  their  expression  became 
very  kindly  and  a  little  bantering,  when  she 
opened  them  wide,  into  their  clear,  almost  cold 
brilliancy,  there  came  something  ill-natured 
.  .  .  something  menacing.  Her  eyes  gained  a 
174 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

peculiar  beauty  from  her  eyebrows,  which  were 
thick,  and  met  in  the  centre,  and  had  the 
smoothness  of  sable  fur).  *  Don't  you  want  me 
to  buy  your  estate  ?  You  want  money  for  your 
nuptials  ?     Don't  you  ? ' 

*  Yes.' 

'  And  do  you  want  much  ? ' 

*  I  should  be  satisfied  with  a  few  thousand 
francs  at  first.  Your  husband  knows  my  estate. 
You  can  consult  him — I  would  take  a  very 
moderate  price.' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  tossed  her  head  from  left 
to  right.  '  In  the  first  place,  she  began  in 
deliberate  tones,  drumming  with  the  tips  of 
her  fingers  on  the  cuff  of  Sanin's  coat,  *  I  am 
not  in  the  habit  of  consulting  my  husband, 
except  about  matters  of  dress — he 's  my  right 
hand  in  that ;  a7id  in  the  second  place,  why  do 
you  say  that  you  will  fix  a  low  price  ?  I  don't 
want  to  take  advantage  of  your  being  very 
much  in  love  at  the  moment,  and  ready  to  make 
any  sacrifices.  ...  I  won't  accept  sacrifices  of 
any  kind  from  you.  What  ?  Instead  of  en- 
couraging you  .  .  .  come,  how  is  one  to  express 
it  properly  ? — in  your  noble  sentiments,  eh  } 
am  I  to  fleece  you  ?  that 's  not  my  way.  I  can 
be  hard  on  people,  on  occasion — only  not  in 
that  way.' 

Sanin  was  utterly  unable  to  make  out 
'IS 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

whether  she  was  laughing  at  him  or  speaking 
seriously,  and  only  said  to  himself:  'Oh,  I  can 
see  one  has  to  mind  what  one 's  about  with  you ! ' 

A  man-servant  came  in  with  a  Russian 
samovar,  tea-things,  cream,  biscuits,  etc.,  on  a 
big  tray ;  he  set  all  these  good  things  on  the 
table  between  Sanin  and  Madame  Polozov,  and 
retired. 

She  poured  him  out  a  cup  of  tea.  '  You 
don't  object?'  she  queried,  as  she  put  sugar  in 
his  cup  with  her  fingers  .  .  .  though  sugar- 
tongs  were  lying  close  by. 

'  Oh,  please !  .  .  .  From  such  a  lovely 
hand  .  .  .' 

He  did  not  finish  his  phrase,  and  almost 
choked  over  a  sip  of  tea,  while  she  watched 
him  attentively  and  brightly. 

*  I  spoke  of  a  moderate  price  for  my  land/ 
he  went  on,  *  because  as  you  are  abroad  just 
now,  I  can  hardly  suppose  you  have  a  great 
dealof  cash  available,  and  in  fact,  I  feel  myself 
that  the  sale  .  .  .  the  purchase  of  my  land, 
under  such  conditions  is  something  exceptional, 
and  I  ought  to  take  that  into  consideration.' 

Sanin  got  confused,  and  lost  the  thread  of 
what  he  was  saying,  while  Maria  Nikolaevna 
softly  leaned  back  in  her  easy-chair,  folded  her 
arms,  and  watched  him  with  the  same  attentive 
bright  look.  He  was  silent  at  last. 
176 


^      y 

THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  Never  mind,  go  on,  go  on,'  she  said,  as  it 
were  coming  to  his  aid  ;  '  I  'm  h'stening  to  you. 
I  like  to  hear  you  ;  go  on  talking.' 

Sanin  fell  to  describing  his  estate,  how  many 
acres  it  contained,  and  where  it  was  situated, 
and  what  were  its  agricultural  advantages, 
and  what  profit  could  be  made  from  it  .  .  . 
he  even  referred  to  the  picturesque  situation 
of  the  house  ;  while  Maria  Nikolaevna  still 
watched  him,  and  watched  more  and  more 
intently  and  radiantly,  and  her  lips  faintly 
stirred,  without  smiling  :  she  bit  them.  He  felt 
awkward  at  last ;  he  was  silent  a  second  time. 

'  Dimitri  Pavlovitch,'began  MariaNikolaevna, 
and  sank  into  thought  again.  .  .  .  '  Dimitri 
Pavlovitch,'  she  repeated.  .  .  .  'Do  you  know 
what :  I  am  sure  the  purchase  of  your  estate 
will  be  a  very  profitable  transaction  for  me, 
and  that  we  shall  come  to  terms  ;  but  you  must 
give  me  two  days.  .  .  .  Yes,  two  days'  grace. 
You  are  able  to  endure  two  days'  separation 
from  your  betrothed,  aren't  you  ?  Longer  I 
won't  keep  you  against  your  will — I  give  you 
my  word  of  honour.  But  if  you  want  five  or 
six  thousand  francs  at  once,  I  am  ready  with 
great  pleasure  to  let  you  have  it  as  a  loan,  and 
then  we  '11  settle  later.' 

Sanin  got  up.  *  I  must  thank  you,  Maria 
Nikolaevna,  for  your  kindhearted  and  friendly 
M  177 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

readiness  to  do  a  service  to  a  man  almost 
unknown  to  you.  But  if  that  is  your  decided 
wish,  then  I  prefer  to  await  your  decision  about 
my  estate — I  will  stay  here  two  days.' 

'  Yes ;  that  is  my  wish,  Dimitri  Pavlovitch. 
And  will  it  be  very  hard  for  you  ?  Very  ?  Tell 
me.' 

'  I  love  my  betrothed,  Maria  Nikolaevna,  and 
to  be  separated  from  her  is  hard  for  me.' 

*  Ah  !  you  're  a  heart  of  gold  ! '  Maria  Niko- 
laevna commented  with  a  sigh.  *  I  promise  not 
to  torment  you  too  much.     Are  you  going  ?  ' 

'  It  is  late,'  observed  Sanin. 

*  And  you  want  to  rest  after  your  journey, 
and  your  game  of  "fools"  with  my  husband. 
Tell  me,  were  you  a  great  friend  of  IppoUt 
Sidoritch,  my  husband  ? ' 

'  We  were  educated  at  the  same  school.' 

*  And  was  he  the  same  then  ?  ' 

'The  same  as  what?'  inquired  Sanin. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  burst  out  laughing,  and 
laughed  till  she  was  red  in  the  face ;  she  put 
her  handkerchief  to  her  lips,  rose  from  her 
chair,  and  swaying  as  though  she  were  tired, 
went  up  to  Sanin,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
him. 

He  bowed  over  it,  and  went  towards  the 
door. 

*  Come    early    to-morrow — do     you    hear  ? ' 

178 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

she  called  after  him.  He  looked  back  as  he 
went  out  of  the  room,  and  saw  that  she  had 
again  dropped  into  an  easy-chair,  and  flung  both 
arms  behind  her  head.  The  loose  sleeves  of 
her  tea-gown  fell  open  almost  to  her  shoulders, 
and  it  was  impossible  not  to  admit  that  the 
pose  of  the  arms,  that  the  whole  figure,  was 
enchantingly  beautiful. 


XXXVI 

Long  after  midnight  the  lamp  was  burning  in 
Sanin's  room.  He  sat  down  to  the  table  and 
wrote  to  'his  Gemma.'  He  told  her  everything  ; 
he  described  the  Polozovs — husband  and  wife 
— but,  more  than  all,  enlarged  on  his  own  feel- 
ings, and  ended  by  appointing  a  meeting  with 
her  in  three  days  !  !  !  (with  three  marks  of 
exclamation).  Early  in  the  morning  he  took 
this  letter  to  the  post,  and  went  for  a  walk  in 
the  garden  of  the  Kurhaus,  where  music  was 
already  being  played.  There  were  few  people 
in  it  as  yet ;  he  stood  before  the  arbour  in  which 
the  orchestra  was  placed,  listened  to  an  adap- 
tation of  airs  from  *  Robert  le  Diable,'  and  after 
drinking  some  coffee,  turned  into  a  solitary  side 
walk,  sat  down  on  a  bench,  and  fell  into  a 
reverie.  The  handle  of  a  parasol  gave  him  a 
179 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

rapid,  and  rather  vigorous,  thump  on  the 
shoulder.  He  started.  .  .  .  Before  him  in  a 
light,  grey-green  barege  dress,  in  a  white  tulle 
hat,  and  suede  gloves,  stood  Maria  Nikolaevna, 
fresh  and  rosy  as  a  summer  morning,  though 
the  languor  of  sound  unbroken  sleep  had  not 
yet  quite  vanished  from  her  movements  and 
her  eyes. 

*  Good-morning,'  she  said.  *  I  sent  after  you 
to-day,  but  you  'd  already  gone  out.  I  've  only 
just  drunk  my  second  glass — they're  making 
me  drink  the  water  here,  you  know — whatever 
for,  there's  no  telling  .  .  .  am  I  not  healthy 
enough  ?  And  now  I  have  to  walk  for  a  whole 
hour.  Will  you  be  my  companion  ?  And  then 
we  '11  have  some  coffee.' 

'  I  've  had  some  already,'  Sanin  observed, 
getting  up ;  *  but  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  a 
walk  with  you.' 

*  Very  well,  give  me  your  arm  then  ;  don't  be 
afraid  :  your  betrothed  is  not  here — she  won't 
see  you.' 

Sanin  gave  a  constrained  smile.  He  experi- 
enced a  disagreeable  sensation  every  time  Maria 
Nikolaevna  referred  to  Gemma.  However,  he 
made  haste  to  bend  towards  her  obediently. 
.  .  .  Maria  Nikolaevna's  arm  slipped  slowly 
and  softly  into  his  arm,  and  glided  over  it,  and 
seemed  to  cling  tight  to  it. 
1 80 


THE  TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

'  Come — this  way,'  she  said  to  him,  putting  up 
her  open  parasol  over  her  shoulder.  *  I  'm  quite 
at  home  in  this  park  ;  I  will  take  you  to  the 
best  places.  And  do  you  know  what  ?  (she 
very  often  made  use  of  this  expression),  we 
won't  talk  just  now  about  that  sale,  we  '11  have 
a  thorough  discussion  of  that  after  lunch ;  but 
you  must  tell  me  now  about  yourself  ...  so 
that  I  may  know  whom  I  have  to  do  with. 
And  afterwards,  if  you  like,  I  will  tell  you 
about  myself.     Do  you  agree  ?  ' 

'  But,  Maria  Nikolaevna,  what  interest  can 
there  be  for  you  .  .  .' 

*Stop,  stop.  You  don't  understand  me.  I 
don't  want  to  flirt  with  you.'  Maria  Nikolaevna 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  '  He 's  got  a  betrothed 
like  an  antique  statue,  is  it  likely  I  am  going 
to  flirt  with  him?  But  you've  something  to 
sell,  and  I  'm  the  purchaser.  I  want  to  know 
what  your  goods  are  like.  Well,  of  course,  you 
must  show  what  they  are  like.  I  don't  only 
want  to  know  what  I  'm  buying,  but  whom  I  'm 
buying  from.  That  was  my  father's  rule. 
Come,  begin  .  .  .  come,  if  not  from  childhood 
— come  now,  have  you  been  long  abroad  ?  And 
where  have  you  been  up  till  now  ^  Only  don't 
walk  so  fast,  we  're  in  no  hurry.' 

'  I  came  here  from  Italy,  where  I  spent 
several  months.' 

i8i 


THE     TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'  Ah,  you  feel,  it  seems,  a  special  attraction 
towards  everything  Italian.  It's  strange  you 
didn't  find  your  lady-love  there.  Are  you  fond 
of  art  ?  of  pictures  ?  or  more  of  music  } ' 

*I  am  fond  of  art.  ...  I  like  everything 
beautiful.' 

'  And  music  .? ' 

'  I  like  music  too.' 

*  Well,  I  don't  at  all.  I  don't  care  for  any- 
thing but  Russian  songs — and  that  in  the 
country  and  in  the  spring — with  dancing,  you 
know  .  .  .  red  shirts,  wreaths  of  beads,  the 
young  grass  in  the  mea(fows,the  smell  of  smoke 
.  .  .  delicious  !  But  we  weren't  talking  of  me. 
Go  on,  tell  me.' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  walked  on,  and  kept  look- 
ing at  Sanin.  She  was  tall — her  face  was 
almost  on  a  level  with  his  face. 

He  began  to  talk — at  first  reluctantly,  un- 
skilfully— but  afterwards  he  talked  more  freely, 
chattered  away  in  fact.  Maria  Nikolaevna  was 
a  very  good  listener  ;  and  moreover  she  seemed 
herself  so  frank,  that  she  led  others  uncon- 
sciously on  to  frankness.  She  possessed  that 
great  gift  of  *  intimateness' — /e  terrible  don  de 
la  familiaritc — to  which  Cardinal  Retz  refers. 
Sanin  talked  of  his  travels,  of  his  life  in 
Petersburg,  of  his  youth.  .  .  .  Had  Maria 
Nikolaevna  been  a  lady  of  fashion,  with  refined 
182 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

manners,  he  would  never  have  opened  out  so  ; 
hilt    she   brrseir  sp^ke  of  hfiigelf  as  ajj^ood — 
fello3^,Uvho-had- no- patience  with  ceremony  of 
any  sort ;  it  was  in  those  words  that  she  char- 
acterised herself  to  Sanin.     And  at  the  same 
time  this  '  good  fellow  '  walked  by  his  side  with 
feline  grace,  slightly  bending  towards  him,  and 
peeping  into  his  face  ;  and  this  '  good  fellow ' 
walked  in  the  form  of  a  young  feminine  creature, 
full  of  the  tormenting,  fiery,  soft  and  seductive 
charm,  of  which — for  the  undoing  of  us  poor 
weak    sinful     men — only    Slav     natures     are 
possessed,  and    but    few    of  them,  and  those 
never  of  pure  Slav  blood,  with  no  foreign  alloy. 
Sanin's  walk  with  INIaria  Nikolaevna,  Sanin's 
talk   with    Maria   Nikolaevna  lasted    over   an 
hour.     And  they  did  not  stop  once  ;  they  kept 
walking  about  the  endless  avenues  of  the  park, 
now  mounting  a  hill  and  admiring  the  view  as 
they   went,    and    now    going    down    into   the 
valley,  and  getting  hidden  in  the  thick  shadows, 
— and    all   the    while   arm-in-arm.      At   times 
Sanin  felt  positively  irritated  ;   he  had  never 
walked    so    long    with    Gemma,    his    darling 
Gemma  .  .  .  but  this  lady  had  simply  taken 
possession  of  him,  and  there  was  no  escape ! 
*  Aren't  you  tired?'  he  said  to  her  more  than 
once.     '  I  never  get  tired,'  she  answered.     Now 
and  then  they  met  other  people  walking  in  the 
183 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

park  ;  almost  all  of  them  bowed — some  respect- 
fully, others  even  cringingly.  To  one  of  them, 
a  very  handsome,  fashionably  dressed  dark 
man,  she  called  from  a  distance  with  the  best 
Parisian  accent,  '  Comte^  vous  savez,  il  ne  faut 
pas  venir  me  voir — ni  aujourd' hui  ni  deinain^ 
The  man  took  off  his  hat,  without  speaking, 
and  dropped  a  low  bow. 

'  Who 's  that  ? '  asked  Sanin  with  the  bad 
habit  of  asking  questions  characteristic  of  all 
Russians. 

*  Oh,  a  Frenchman,  there  are  lots  of  them 
here  .  .  .  He's  dancing  attendance  on  me 
too.  It's  time  for  our  coffee,  though.  Let's 
go  home  ;  you  must  be  hungry  by  this  time,  I 
should  say.  My  better  half  must  have  got  his 
eye-peeps  open  by  now.' 

'Better  half!  Eye-peeps!'  Sanin  repeated 
to  himself  .  .  .  '  And  speaks  French  so  well 
.  .  .  what  a  strange  creature  ! ' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  was  not  mistaken.  When 
she  went  back  into  the  hotel  with  Sanin,  her 
'better  half  or  'dumpling'  was  already  seated, 
the  invariable  fez  on  his  head,  before  a  table 
laid  for  breakfast. 

*  I  've  been  waiting  for  you  ! '  he  cried,  making 
a  sour  face.  '  I  was  on  the  point  of  having 
coffee  without  you.' 

184 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  Never  mind,  never  mind,'  Maria  Nikolaevna 
responded  cheerfully.  *  Are  you  angry  ?  That 's 
good  for  you  ;  without  that  you  'd  turn  into 
a  mummy  altogether.  Here  I  've  brought  a 
visitor.  Make  haste  and  ring !  Let  us  have 
coffee — the  best  coffee — in  Saxony  cups  on  a 
snow-white  cloth ! ' 

She  threw  off  her  hat  and  gloves,  and 
clapped  her  hands. 

Polozov  looked  at  her  from  under  his  brows. 

'  What  makes  you  so  skittish  to-day,  Maria 
Nikolaevna  ? '  he  said  in  an  undertone. 

'That's  no  business  of  yours,  Ippolit  Sido- 
ritch  !  Ring  !  Dimitri  Pavlovitch,  sit  down 
and  have  some  coffee  for  the  second  time. 
Ah,  how  nice  it  is  to  give  orders  !  There  's  no 
pleasure  on  earth  like  it ! ' 

'When  you're  obeyed,'  grumbled  her  hus- 
band again. 

*Just  so,  when  one's  obeyed!  That's  why 
I  *m  so  happy !  Especially  with  you.  Isn't 
it  so,  dumpling  ?     Ah,  here 's  the  coffee.' 

On  the  immense  tray,  which  the  waiter 
brought  in,  there  lay  also  a  playbill.  Maria 
Nikolaevna  snatched  it  up  at  once. 

*  A  drama ! '  she  pronounced  with  indigna- 
tion,  *a    German    drama.      No    matter;    it's 
better  than  a  German  comedy.     Order  a  box 
for    me — baignoire — or    no    .    .    .    better    the 
185 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

Fremden-Loge^  she  turned  to  the  waiter. 
*  Do  you  hear :  the  Fremden-Loge  it  must 
be!' 

'  But  if  the  Fremden-Loge  has  been  ah'eady 
taken  by  his  excellency,  the  director  of  the 
town  {seine  Excellenz  der  Herr  Stadt-Director)^' 
the  waiter  ventured  to  demur. 

*  Give  his  excellency  ten  thalers,  and  let  the 
box  be  mine  !     Do  you  hear  ! ' 

The  waiter  bent  his  head  humbly  and 
mournfully. 

*  Dimitri  Pavlovitch,  you  will  go  with  me  to 
the  theatre  ?  the  German  actors  are  awful,  but 
you  will  go  .  .  .  Yes  ?  Yes  ?  How  obliging 
you  are  !     Dumpling,  are  you  not  coming? 

'  You  settle  it,'  Polozov  observed  into  the 
cup  he  had  lifted  to  his  lips. 

'  Do  you  know  what,  you  stay  at  home. 
You  always  go  to  sleep  at  the  theatre,  and 
you  don't  understand  much  German.  I  '11  tell 
you  what  you  'd  better  do,  write  an  answer  to 
the  overseer — you  remember,  about  our  mill 
.  .  .  about  the  peasants'  grinding.  Tell  him 
that  I  won't  have  it,  and  I  won't  and  that 's  all 
about  it !  There  's  occupation  for  you  for  the 
whole  evening.' 

*  All  right,'  answered  Polozov. 

'  Well    then,    that 's    first  -  rate.      You  're    a 
darling.      And    now,   gentlemen,   as   we   have 
1 86 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

just  been  speaking  of  my  overseer,  let 's  talk 
about  our  great  business.  Come,  directly  the 
waiter  has  cleared  the  table,  you  shall  tell  me 
all,  Dimitri  Pavlovitch,  about  your  estate,  what 
price  you  will  sell  it  for,  how  much  you  want 
paid  down  in  advance,  everything,  in  fact ! 
(At  last,  thought  Sanin,  thank  God  !)  You 
have  told  me  something  about  it  already,  you 
remember,  you  described  your  garden  delight- 
fully, but  dumpling  wasn't  here.  .  .  .  Let  him 
hear,  he  may  pick  a  hole  somewhere !  I  'm 
delighted  to  think  that  I  can  help  you  to  get 
married,  besides,  I  promised  you  that  I  would 
go  into  your  business  after  lunch,  and  I  always 
keep  my  promises,  isn't  that  the  truth,  Ippolit 
Sidoritch?' 

Polozov  rubbed  his  face  with  his  open  hand. 
'  The  truth's  the  truth.  You  don't  deceive  any 
one.' 

'  Never !  and  I  never  will  deceive  any  one. 
Well,  Dimitri  Pavlovitch,  expound  the  case  as 
we  express  it  in  the  senate.' 


XXXVIl 

Sanin  proceeded  to  expound  his  case,  that  is 
to  say,  again,  a  second  time,  to  describe  his 
property,  not  touching  this  time  on  the  beauties 

187 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

of  nature,   and    now   and    then   appealing   to 
Polozov    for    confirmation    of   his   *  facts   and 
figures.'      But    Polozov    simply    gasped    and 
shook  his  head,  whether  in  approval   or  dis- 
approval,  it   would    have    puzzled    the    devil, 
one  might  fancy,  to  decide.     However,  Maria 
Nikolaevna  stood  in  no  need  of  his  aid.     She 
exhibited      commercial      and      administrative 
abilities   that   were   really   astonishing !      She 
was    familiar    with    all    the    ins-and-outs    of 
farming ;    she   asked    questions    about   every- 
thing with  great  exactitude,  went  into  every 
point ;    every  word   of  hers  went   straight  to 
the  root  of  the  matter,  and  hit  the  nail  on  the 
head.     Sanin  had  not  expected  such  a  close 
inquiry,  he  had    not  prepared  himself  for   it. 
And  this  inquiry  lasted  for  fully  an  hour  and 
a  half     Sanin  experienced  all  the  sensations 
of  the  criminal  on  his  trial,  sitting  on  a  narrow 
bench  confronted  by  a  stern   and  penetrating 
judge.      'Why,  it's  a  cross-examination!'  he 
murmured     to     himself     dejectedly.       Maria 
Nikolaevna   kept    laughing    all   the   while,   as 
though  it  were  a  joke  ;    but  Sanin   felt   none 
the  more  at  ease  for  that ;   and   when  in  the 
course   of  the   *  cross-examination '   it   turned 
out  that  he  had  not  clearly  realised  the  exact 
meaning  of  the  words  '  repartition  '  and  *  tilth,' 
he  was  in  a  cold  perspiration  all  over. 
i88 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'Well,  that's  all  right!'  Maria  Nikolaevna 
decided  at  last.  '  I  know  your  estate  now  .  .  . 
as  well  as  you  do.  What  price  do  you  suggest 
per  soul?  '  (At  that  time,  as  every  one  knows, 
the  prices  of  estates  were  reckoned  by  the  souls 
living  as  serfs  on  them.) 

*  Well  ...  I  imagine  ...  I  could  not  take 
less  than  five  hundred  roubles  for  each,'  Sanin 
articulated  with  difficulty.  O  Pantaleone, 
Pantaleone,  where  were  you  !  This  was 
when  you  ought  to  have  cried  again, 
'  Barbari ! ' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  turned  her  eyes  upwards 
as  though  she  were  calculating. 

'  Well  ? '  she  said  at  last.  *  I  think  there 's 
no  harm  in  that  price.  But  I  reserved  for  my- 
self two  days'  grace,  and  you  must  wait  till 
to-morrow.  I  imagine  we  shall  come  to  an 
arrangement,  and  then  you  will  tell  me  how 
much  you  want  paid  down.  And  now,  basta 
cosi\  '  she  cried,  noticing  Sanin  was  about  to 
make  some  reply.  '  We  've  spent  enough  time 
over  filthy  lucre  .  .  .  a  demain  les  affaires.  Do 
you  know  what,  I  '11  let  you  go  now  .  .  .  (she 
glanced  at  a  little  enamelled  watch,  stuck  in 
her  belt)  ...  till  three  o'clock  ...  I  must  let 
you  rest.     Go  and  play  roulette.' 

'  I    never   play  games  of  chance,'  observed 
Sanin. 

189 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  Really  ?  Why,  you  're  a  paragon.  Though 
I  don't  either.  It's  stupid  throwing  away  one's 
money  when  one 's  no  chance.  But  go  into  the 
gambling  saloon,  and  look  at  the  faces.  Very 
comic  ones  there  are  there.  There  's  one  old 
woman  with  a  rustic  headband  and  a  moustache, 
simply  delicious  !  Our  prince  there 's  another, 
a  good  one  too.  A  majestic  figure  with  a  nose 
like  an  eagle's,  and  when  he  puts  down  a  thaler^ 
he  crosses  himself  under  his  waistcoat.  Read 
the  papers,  go  a  walk,  do  what  you  like,  in 
fact.  But  at  three  o'clock  I  expect  you  .  .  . 
de  pied  ferine.  We  shall  have  to  dine  a  little 
earlier.  The  theatre  among  these  absurd 
Germans  begins  at  half-past  six.  She  held 
out  her  hand.     '  Sans  rancune^  n'est-ce  pas  ? ' 

*  Really,  Maria  Nikolaevna,  what  reason 
have  I  to  be  annoyed  ? ' 

'  Why,  because  I  've  been  tormenting  you. 
Wait  a  little,  you  '11  see.  There 's  worse  to 
come,'  she  added,  fluttering  her  eyelids,  and  all 
her  dimples  suddenly  came  out  on  her  flushing 
cheeks.     *  Till  we  meet ! ' 

Sanin  bowed  and  went  out.  A  merry  laugh 
rang  out  after  him,  and  in  the  looking-glass 
which  he  was  passing  at  that  instant,  the  fol- 
lowing scene  was  reflected :  Maria  Nikolaevna 
had  pulled  her  husband's  fez  over  his  eyes,  and 
he  was  helplessly  struggling  with  both  hands. 
190 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


XXXVIII 

On,  what  a  deep  sigh  of  delight  Sanin  heaved, 
when  he  found  himself  in  his  room !  Indeed, 
Maria  Nikolaevna  had  spoken  the  truth,  he 
needed  rest,  rest  from  all  these  new  acquaint- 
ances, collisions,  conversations,  from  this  suf- 
focating atmosphere  which  was  affecting  his 
head  and  his  heart,  from  this  enigmatical, 
uninvited  intimacy  with  a  woman,  so  alien 
to  him  !  And  when  was  all  this  taking  place? 
Almost  the  day  after  he  had  learnt  that  Gemma 
loved  him,  after  he  had  become  betrothed  to 
her.  Why,  it  was  sacrilege !  A  thousand 
times  he  mentally  asked  forgiveness  of  his 
pure  chaste  dove,  though  he  could  not  really 
blame  himself  for  anything  ;  a  thousand  times 
over  he  kissed  the  cross  she  had  given  him. 
Had  he  not  the  hope  of  bringing  the  business, 
for  which  he  had  come  to  Wiesbaden,  to  a 
speedy  and  successful  conclusion,  he  would 
have  rushed  off  headlong,  back  again,  to  sweet 
Frankfort,  to  that  dear  house,  now  his  own 
home,  to  her,  to  throw  himself  at  her  loved 
feet.  .  .  .  But  there  was  no  help  for  it !  The 
cup  must  be  drunk  to  the  dregs,  he  must  dress, 
go  to  dinner,  and  from  there  to  the  theatre.  .  .  . 
If  only  she  would  let  him  go  to-morrow  ! 
191 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

One  other  thing  confounded  him,  angered 
him  ;  with  love,  with  tenderness,  with  grateful 
transport  he  dreamed  of  Gemma,  of  their  life 
together,  of  the  happiness  awaiting  him  in 
the  future,  and  yet  this  strange  woman,  this 
Madame  Polozov  persistently  floated  —  no  ! 
not  floated,  poked  herself,  so  Sanin  with 
special  vindictiveness  expressed  it — poked  her- 
self \n  and  faced  his  eyes,  and  he  could  not  rid 
himself  of  her  image,  could  not  help  hearing 
her  voice,  recalling  her  words,  could  not  help 
being  aware  even  of  the  special  scent,  delicate, 
fresh  and  penetrating,  like  the  scent  of  yellow 
lilies,  that  was  wafted  from  her  garments.  This 
lady  was  obviously  fooling  him,  and  trying 
in  every  way  to  get  over  him  .  .  .  what  for  ? 
what  did  she  want?  Could  it  be  merely  the 
caprice  of  a  spoiled,  rich,  and  most  likely 
unprincipled  woman  ?  And  that  husband  ! 
What  a  creature  he  was !  What  were  his 
relations  with  her  ?  And  why  would  these 
questions  keep  coming  into  his  head,  when 
he,  Sanin,  had  really  no  interest  whatever  in 
either  Polozov  or  his  wife  ?  Why  could  he 
not  drive  away  that  intrusive  image,  even  when 
he  turned  with  his  whole  soul  to  another  image, 
clear  and  bright  as  God's  sunshine?  How, 
through  those  almost  divine  features,  dare  those 
others  force  themselves  upon  him  ?  And  not 
192 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

only  that;  those  other  features  smiled  insolently 
at  him.  Those  grey,  rapacious  eyes,  those 
dimples,  those  snake-like  tresses,  how  was  it 
all  that  seemed  to  cleave  to  him,  and  to  shake 
it  all  off,  and  fling  it  away,  he  was  unable, 
had  not  the  power  ? 

Nonsense !  nonsense !  to-morrow  it  would 
all  vanish  and  leave  no  trace.  .  .  .  But  would 
she  let  him  go  to-morrow? 

Yes.  .  .  .  All  these  question  he  put  to  him- 
self, but  the  time  was  moving  on  to  three 
o'clock,  and  he  put  on  a  black  frockcoat  and 
after  a  turn  in  the  park,  went  in  to  the  Polo- 
zovs ! 

He  found  in  their  drawing-room  a  secretary 
of  the  legation,  a  very  tall  light-haired  Ger- 
man, with  the  profile  of  a  horse,  and  his  hair 
parted  down  the  back  of  his  head  (at  that 
time  a  new  fashion),  and  .  .  .  oh,  wonder ! 
whom  besides  ?  Von  Donhof,  the  very  officer 
with  whom  he  had  fought  a  few  days  before  ! 
He  had  not  the  slightest  expectation  of 
meeting  him  there  and  could  not  help  being 
taken  aback.    He  greeted  him,  however. 

'  Are  you  acquainted  ? '  asked  Maria  Niko- 
laevna  who  had  not  failed  to  notice  Sanin's 
embarrassment. 

'Yes  ...  I  have  already  had  the  honour,' 
N  193 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

said  Donhof,  and  bending  a  little  aside,  in  an 
undertone  he  added  to  Maria  Nikolaevna,  with 
a  smile,  '  The  very  man  .  .  .  your  compatriot 
.  :  .  the  Russian  .  .  . ' 

*  Impossible ! '  she  exclaimed  also  in  an 
undertone ;  she  shook  her  finger  at  him,  and 
at  once  began  to  bid  good-bye  both  to  him 
and  the  long  secretary,  who  was,  to  judge  by 
every  symptom,  head  over  ears  i-n  love  with 
her  ;  he  positively  gaped  every  time  he  looked 
at  her.  Donhof  promptly  took  leave  with 
amiable  docility,  like  a  friend  of  the  family 
who  understands  at  half  a  word  what  is  ex- 
pected of  him  ;  the  secretary  showed  signs  of 
restiveness,  but  Maria  Nikolaevna  turned  him 
out  without  any  kind  of  ceremony. 

'Get  along  to  your  sovereign  mistress,'  she  said 
to  him  (there  was  at  that  time  in  Wiesbaden  a 
certain  princess  di  Monaco,  who  looked  sur- 
prisingly like  a  cocottc  of  the  poorer  sort)  ;  Svhat 
do  you  want  to  stay  with  a  plebeian  like  me 
for?' 

'  Really,  dear  madam,'  protested  the  luckless 
secretary,  '  all  the  princesses  in  the  world.  .  .  .' 

But  Maria  Nikolaevna  was  remorseless,  and 
the  secretary  went  away,  parting  and  all. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  was  dressed  that  day  very 
much  '  to  her  advantage,'  as  our  grandmothers 
used  to  say.  She  wore  a  pink  glace  silk  dress, 
194 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

with  sleeves  a  la  Fontange,  and  a  big  diamond 
in  each  ear.  Her  eyes  sparkled  as  much  as 
her  diamonds  ;  she  seemed  in  a  good  humour 
and  in  high  spirits. 

She  made  Sanin  sit  beside  her,  and  began 
talking  to  him  about  Paris,  where  she  was  in- 
tending to  go  in  a  few  days,  of  how  sick  she 
was  of  Germans,  how  stupid  they  were  when 
they  tried  to  be  clever,  and  how  inappropriately 
clever  sometimes  when  they  were  stupid  ;  and 
suddenly,  point-blank,  as  they  say — a  brUle 
pourpoint — asked  him,  was  it  true  that  he  had 
fought  a  duel  with  the  very  officer  who  had  been 
there  just  now,  only  a  few  days  ago,  on  account 
of  a  lady? 

'  How  did  you  know  that  ? '  muttered  Sanin, 
dumfoundered. 

*  The  earth  is  full  of  rumours,  Dimitri  Pavlo- 
vitch ;  but  anyway,  I  know  you  were  quite 
right,  perfectly  right,  and  behaved  like  a 
knight.  Tell  me,  was  that  lady  your  be- 
trothed ? ' 

Sanin  slightly  frowned  .  .  . 

'  There,  I  won't,  I  won't,'  Maria  Nikolaevna 
hastened  to  say.  '  You  don't  like  it,  forgive 
me,  I  won't  do  it,  don't  be  angry ! '  Polozov 
came  in  from  the  next  room  with  a  newspaper 
in  his  hand.  *  What  do  you  want  ?  Or  is 
dinner  ready? ' 

195 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'Dinner '11  be  ready  directly,  but  just  see 
what  I  Ve  read  in  the  Northern  Bee  .  .  .  Prince 
Gromoboy  is  dead.' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  raised  her  head. 

*  Ah  !  I  wish  him  the  joys  of.  Paradise  !  He 
used,'  she  turned  to  Sanin,  'to  fill  all  my  rooms 
with  camellias  every  February  on  my  birthday. 
But  it  wasn't  worth  spending  the  winter  in 
Petersburg  for  that.  He  must  have  been  over 
seventy,  I  should  say?  '  she  said  to  her  husband. 

'  Yes,  he  was.  They  describe  his  funeral  in 
the  paper.  All  the  court  were  present.  And 
here 's  a  poem  too,  of  Prince  Kovrizhkin's  on 
the  occasion.' 

'That's  nice!' 

'  Shall  I  read  them  ?  The  prince  calls  him 
the  good  man  of  wise  counsel.' 

'No,  don't.  The  good  man  of  wise  counsel? 
He  was  simply  the  goodman  of  Tatiana 
Yurevna.  Come  to  dinner.  Life  is  for  the 
living.     Dimitri  Pavlovitch,  your  arm.' 

The  dinner  was,  as  on  the  day  before,  superb, 
and  the  meal  was  a  very  lively  one.  Maria 
Nikolaevna  knew  how  to  tell  a  story  ...  a 
rare  gift  in  a- wonianjL_and  especially  in  a 
Russian  one !  She  did  not  restrict  herself  in 
her  expressions ;  her  countrywomen  received 
particularly  severe  treatment  at  her  hands. 
196 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Sanin  was  more  than  once  set  laughing  by  some 
bold  and  well-directed  word.  Above  all,  Maria 
,N i kCTae vn a,3a3~-'Tror-patlence  -with  hypocrisy, 
cant,  and  humbug.  She  discovered  it  almost 
everywhere  1^he,--a:s-4t~M.ere,  plumed  herself 
on  and  boasted  of  the  humble  surroundings  in 
which  she  had  begun  life.  She  told  rather  queer 
anecdotes  of  her  relations  in  the  days  of  her 
childhood,  spoke  of  herself  as  quite  as  much  of 
a  clodhopper  as  Natalya  Kirilovna  Narishkin. 
It  became  apparent  to  Sanin  that  she  had  been 
througSi_aLgr£aLdeal  more  in  her  time  than  the 
majority  of  women  of  her  age. 

Pbtozov  ate  meditatively,  drank  attentively, 
and  only  occasionally  cast  first  on  his  wife, 
then  on  Sanin,  his  lightish,  dim-looking,  but, 
in  reality,  very  keen  eyes. 

*  What  a  clever  darling  you  are  ! '  cried  Maria 
Nikolaevna,  turning  to  him;  *how  well  you 
carried  out  all  my  commissions  in  Frankfort ! 
I  could  give  you  a  kiss  on  your  forehead  for  it, 
but  you  're  not  very  keen  after  kisses.' 

'  I  'm  not,'  responded  Polozov,  and  he  cut  a 
pine-apple  with  a  silver  knife. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  looked  at  him  and 
drummed  with  her  fingers  on  the  table. 

*So  our  bet's  on,  isn't  it?'  she  said  signi- 
ficantly. 

*  Yes,  it 's  on.' 

197 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  All  right.     You  '11  lose  it' 

Polozov  stuck  out  his  chin.  '  Well,  this  time 
you  mustn't  be  too  sanguine,  Maria  Nikolaevna, 
maybe  you  will  lose.' 

'What  is  the  bet?  May  I  know?'  asked 
Sanin. 

*  No  .  .  .  not  now,'  answered  Maria  Niko- 
laevna, and  she  laughed. 

It  struck  seven.  The  waiter  announced  that 
the  carriage  was  ready.  Polozov  saw  his  wife 
out,  and  at  once  waddled  back  to  his  easy- 
chair. 

'  Mind  now !  Don't  forget  the  letter  to  the 
overseer,'  Maria  Nikolaevna  shouted  to  him 
from  the  hall. 

'  I  '11  write,  don't  worry  yourself.  I  'm  a 
business-like  person.' 


XXXIX 

In  the  year  1840,  the  theatre  at  Wiesbaden 
was  a  poor  affair  even  externally,  and  its  com- 
pany, for  affected  and  pitiful  mediocrity,  for 
studious  and  vulgar  commonplaceness,  not  one 
hair's-breadth  above  the  level,  which  might  be 
regarded  up  to  now  as  the  normal  one  in  all 
German  theatres,  and  which  has  been  dis- 
played in  perfection  lately  by  the  company  in 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Carlsruhe,  under  the  'illustrious'  direction  of 
Herr  Devrient.  At  the  back  of  the  box  taken 
for  her  '  Serenity  Madame  von  Polozov '  (how 
the  waiter  devised  the  means  of  getting  it,  God 
knows,  he  can  hardly  have  really  bribed  the 
stadt-director !)  was  a  little  room,  with  sofas 
all  round  it  ;  before  she  went  into  the  box, 
Maria  Nikolaevna  asked  Sanin  to  draw  up  the 
screen  that  shut  the  box  off  from  the  theatre. 

'  I  don't  want  to  be  seen,'  she  said,  '  or  else 
they  '11  be  swarming  round  directly,  you  know.' 
She  made  him  sit  down  beside  her  with  his 
back  to  the  house  so  that  the  box  seemed  to 
be  empty.  The  orchestra  played  the  overture 
from  the  Marriage  of  Figaro.  The  curtain 
rose,  the  play  began. 

It  was  one  of  those  numerous  home-raised 
products    in    which    well-read    but    talentless 
authors,  in   choice,  but  dead  language,  studi- 
ously  and   cautiously   enunciated    some    'pro- 
k       found '   or   '  vital   and    palpitating '    idea,  por- 
Nv  trayed  a  so-called  tragic  conflict,  and  produced 
C_^ulness  ...  an   Asiatic    dulness,  like   Asiatic 
cholera.     Maria  Nikolaevna  listened  patiently 
.  to  half  an  act,  but  when  the  first  lover,  discover- 
\  ing  the  treachery  of  his  mistress  (he  was  dressed 
in  a  cinnamon-coloured  coat  with  '  puffs '  and  a 
O    plush  collar,  a  striped  waistcoat  with  mother- 
of-pearl  buttons,  green  trousers  with  straps  of 
199 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

varnished  leather,  and  white  chamois  leather 
gloves),  when  this  lover  pressed  both  fists  to  his 
bosom,  and  poking  his  two  elbows  out  at  an 
acute  angle,  howled  like  a  dog,  Maria  Niko- 
laevna  could  not  stand  it. 

'  The  humblest  French  actor  in  the  humblest 
little  provincial  town  acts  better  and  more 
naturally  than  the  highest  German  celebrity,' 
she  cried  in  indignation  ;  and  she  moved  away 
and  sat  down  in  the  little  room  at  the  back. 
*  Come  here,'  she  said  to  Sanin,  patting  the 
sofa  beside  her.     *  Let 's  talk.' 

Sanin  obeyed. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  glanced  at  him.  '  Ah,  I 
see  you  're  as  soft  as  silk  !  Your  wife  will  have 
an  easy  time  of  it  with  you.  That  buffoon,' 
she  went  on,  pointing  with  her  fan  towards  the 
howling  actor  (he  was  acting  the  part  of  a 
tutor),  'reminded  me  of  my  young  days;  I, 
too,  was  in  love  with  a  teacher.  It  was  my 
first  .  .  .  no,  my  second  passion.  The  first 
time  I  fell  in  love  with  a  young  monk  of  the 
Don  monastery.  I  was  twelve  years  old.  I 
only  saw  him  on  Sundays.  He  used  to  wear 
a  short  velvet  cassock,  smelt  of  lavender  water, 
and  as  he  made  his  way  through  the  crowd 
with  the  censer,  used  to  say  to  the  ladies  in 
French,  '''■Pardon^  excusez"  but  never  lifted  his 
eyes,  and  he  had  eyelashes  like  that ! '  Maria 
200 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Nikolaevna  marked  off  with  the  nail  of  her 
middle  finger  quite  half  the  length  of  the  little 
finger  and  showed  Sanin.  'My  tutor  was 
called — Monsieur  Gaston  !  I  must  tell  you  he 
was  an  awfully  learned  and  very  severe  person, 
a  Swiss, — and  with  such  an  energetic  face ! 
Whiskers  black  as  pitch,  a  Greek  profile,  and 
lips  that  looked  like  cast  iron !  I  was  afraid 
of  him !  He  was  the  only  man  I  have  ever 
^^^  afraid  of  ia-myJiiSn^He.  was  tutor  to  my 
brother,  who  died  .  .  .  was  drowned.  A  gipsy 
woman  has  foretold  a  violent  death  for  me 
too,  but  that 's  all  moonshine.  I  don't  believe 
in  it.  Only  fancy  Ippolit  Sidoritch  with  a 
dagger ! ' 

'  One  may  die  from  something  else  than  a 
dagger,'  observed  Sanin. 

'All  that's  moonshine!  Are  you  super- 
stitious ?  I  'm  not  a  bit.  What  is  to  be,  will 
be.  Monsieur  Gaston  used  to  live  in  our 
house,  in  the  room  over  my  head.  Sometimes 
I  'd  wake  up  at  night  and  hear  his  footstep — 
he  used  to  go  to  bed  very  late — and  my  heart 
would  stand  still  with  veneration,  or  some 
other  feeling.  My  father  could  hardly  read 
and  write  himself,  but  he  gave  us  an  excellent 
education.     Do  you  know,  I  learnt  Latin  ! ' 

'  You  ?  learnt  Latin  ?  ' 

'  Yes ;  I  did.     Monsieur  Gaston  taught  me. 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

I  read  the  ^neid  with  him.  It's  a  dull  thing, 
but  there  ar^  fine  passages.  Do  you  re- 
member when  Dido_j.nd   ^neas   are   in   the 

'Yes,  yes,  I  remember/  Sanin  answered 
hurriedly.  He  had  long  ago  forgotten  all  his 
Latin,  and  had  only  very  faint  notions  about 
the  u!^neid. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  glanced  at  him,  as  her 
way  was,  a  little  from  one  side  and  looking 
upwards.  *  Don't  imagine,  though,  that  I  am 
very  learned.  Mercy  on  us !  no ;  I  'm  not 
learned,  and  I  Ve  no  talents  of  any  sort.  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  write  .  .  .  really  ;  I  can't 
read  aloud  ;  nor  play  the  piano,  nor  draw,  nor 
sew — nothing  !  That 's  what  I  am — there  you 
have  me  ! ' 

She  threw  out  her  hands.  '  I  tell  you  all 
this,'  she  said,  'first,  so  as  not  to  hear  those 
fools  (she  pointed  to  the  stage  where  at  that 
instant  the  actor's  place  was  being  filled  by  an 
actress,  also  howling,  and  also  with  her  elbows 
projecting  before  her)  and  secondly,  because 
I  'm  in  your  debt ;  you  told  me  all  about  your- 
self yesterday.' 

'  It  was  your  pleasure  to  question  me,'  ob- 
served Sanin. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  suddenly  turned  to  him. 
'  And  it 's  not  your  pleasure  to  know  just  what 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

sort  of  woman  I  am  ?  I  can't  wonder  at  it, 
though,'  she  went  on,  leaning  back  again  on 
the  sofa  cushions.  *  A  man  just  going  to  be 
married,  and  for  love,  and  after  a  duel.  .  .  . 
What  thoughts  could  he  have  for  anything  else  ? ' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  relapsed  into  dreamy 
silence,  and  began  biting  the  handle  of  her  fan 
with  her  big,  but  even,  milkwhite  teeth. 

And  Sanin  felt  mounting  to  his  head  again 
that  intoxication  which  he  had  not  been  able 
to  get  rid  of  for  the  last  two  days. 

The  conversation  between  him  and  Maria 
Nikolaevna  was  carried  on  in  an  undertone, 
alVnost  in  a  whisper,  and  this  irritated  and 
disturbed  him  the  more.  .  .  . 

When  would  it  all  end  ?  ^„_/ 

\¥^ff1r"peOph^tiever  |)ut  an,  end  to    things  / 
themselvfisbrr-lhey  always  wait  for  theerrd-. ' 

Some  one  sneezed  on  the  stage  ;  this  sneeze  "^^ 
had   been  put  into  the  play  by  the  author  as 
the  'comic  relief  or  '  element ' ;  there  was  cer- 
tainly no  other  comic  element  in  it ;  and  the 
audience  made  the  most  of  it ;  they  laughed. 

This  laugh,  too,  jarred  upon  Sanin. 
/  There  were  moments  when  he  actually  did 
not  know  whether  he  was  furious  or  delighted, 
bored  or  amused.     Oh,  if  Gemma  could  have 
seen  him ! 


203 


THE  TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

'  It 's  really  curious,'  Maria  Nikolaevna  began 
all  at  once.  '  A  man  informs  one  and  in  such 
a  calm  voice,  "  I  am  going  to  get  married "  ; 
but  no  one  calmly  says  to  one,  "  I  'm  going  to 
throw  myself  in  the  water."  And  yet  what 
difference  is  there?     It 's  curious,  really.' 

Annoyance  got  the  upper  hand  of  Sanin. 
'  There  's  a  great  difference,  Maria  Nikolaevna  ! 
It's  not  dreadful  at  all  to  throw  oneself  in 
the  water  if  one  can  swim  ;  and  besides  ...  as 
to  the  strangeness  of  marriages,  if  you  come  to 
that  .  .  .' 

He  stopped  short  abruptly  and  bit  his  tongue. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  slapped  her  open  hand 
with  her  fan. 

*  Go  on,  Dimitri  Pavlovitch,  go  on — I  know 
what  you  were  going  to  say.  "  If  it  comes 
to  that,  my  dear  madam,  Maria  Nikolaevna 
Polozov,"  you  were  going  to  say,  "anything 
more  curious  than  your  marriage  it  would  be 
impossible  to  conceive.  ...  I  know  your  hus- 
band well,  from  a  child  !  "  That 's  what  you 
were  going  to  say,  you  who  can  swim  ! ' 

'Excuse  me,'  Sanin  was  beginning.  .  .  . 

'Isn't  it  the  truth?  Isn't  it  the  truth?' 
Maria  Nikolaevna  pronounced  insistently. 
*  Come,  look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  me  I  was 
wrong ! ' 

Sanin  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  eyes. 
204 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  Well,  if  you  like ;  it 's  the  truth,  if  you 
absolutely  insist  upon  it,'  he  said  at  last. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  shook  her  head.  *  Quite 
so,  quite  so.  Well,  and  did  you  ask  yourself, 
you  who  can  swim,  what  could  be  the  reason  of 
Such  a  strange  .  .  .  step  on  the  part  of  a 
w^rmafty  aQt-pDoc--.  .  .  ami  not  a  fool  .  .  .  and 
not  ugly?  AH  that  does  not  interest  you, 
perhaps,  but  no  matter.  I  '11  tell  you  the  reason 
not  this  minute,  but  directly  the  entracte  is 
over.  I  am  in  continual  uneasiness  for  fear 
some  one  should  come  in.  .  .  .' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  had  hardly  uttered  this 
last  word  when  the  outer  door  actually  was 
half  opened,  and  into  the  box  was  thrust  a 
head — red,  oily,  perspiring,  still  young,  but 
toothless ;  with  sleek  long  hair,  a  pendent 
nose,  huge  ears  like  a  bat's,  with  gold  spec- 
tacles on  inquisitive  dull  eyes,  and  a  pince-nez 
over  the  spectacles.  The  head  looked  round, 
saw  Maria  Nikolaevna,  gave  a  nasty  grin, 
nodded.  ...  A  scraggy  neck  craned  in  after 
it.  .  .  . 

Maria  Nikolaevna  shook  her  handkerchief 
at  it.  *  I  'm  not  at  home !  Ich  bi?i  nicht  zu 
Hause^  Herr  P.  ,  .  .  !  Ich  bin  nicht  zu  Hause. 
.  .  .  Ksh-sh  !  ksh-sh-sh  ! ' 

The  head  was  disconcerted,  gave  a  forced 
laugh,  said  with  a  sort  of  sob,  in  imitation 
205 


THE  TORRENTS   OF  SPRING 

of  Liszt,  at  whose  feet  he  had  once  reverently 
grovelled,  '  Sehr  gut,  sehr  gutV  and  vanished. 

*  What  is  that  object  ? '  inquired  Sanin. 

*  Oh,  a  Wiesbaden  critic,  A  literary  man  or 
a  flunkey,  as  you  like.  He  is  in  the  pay  of  a 
local  speculator  here,  and  so  is  bound  to  praise 
everything  and  be  ecstatic  over  every  one, 
though  for  his  part  he  is  soaked  through  and 
through  with  the  nastiest  venom,  to  which  he 
does  not  dare  to  give  vent.  I  am  afraid  he 's 
an  awful  scandalmonger ;  he  '11  run  at  once  to 
tell  every  one  I  'm  in  the  theatre.  Well,  what 
does  it  matter  ? ' 

The  orchestra  played  through  a  waltz,  the 
curtain  floated  up  again.  .  .  .  The  grimacing 
and  whimpering  began  again  on  the  stage. 

'  Well,'  began  Maria  Nikolaevna,  sinking 
again  on  to  the  sofa.  '  Since  you  are  here  and 
obliged  to  sit  v»  '  me,  instead  of  enjoying  the 
society  of  yo  uetrothed — don't  turn  away 
your  eyes  ana  get  cross — I  understand  you, 
and  have  promised  already  to  let  you  go  to  the 
other  end  of  the  earth — but  now  hear  my  con- 
fession. Do  you  care  to  know  what  I  like 
more  than  anything?' 

*  Freedom,'  hazarded  Sanin. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  laid  her  hand  on  his  hand. 

*  Yes,  Dimitri  Pavlovitch,'  she  said,  and  in 
her  voice  there  was  a  note  of  something  special, 

206 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

a  sort  of  unmistakable  sincerity  and  gravity, 
*  freedom,  more  than  all  and  before  all.  And 
don't  imagine  I  am  boasting  of  this — there  is 
nothing  praiseworthy  in  it ;  only  it 's  so  and 
always  will  be  so  with  me  to  the  day  of  my 
death.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  that  I 
saw  a  great  deal  of  slavery  in  my  childhood 
and  suffered  enough  from  it.  Yes,  and  Monsieur 
Gaston,  my  tutor,  opened  my  eyes  too.  Now 
you  can,  perhaps,  understand  why  I  married 
Ippolit  Sidoritch  :  with  him  I  'm  free,  perfectly 
free  as  air,  as  the  wind.  .  .  .  And  I  knew  that  --^^2^ 
before  marriagej,..J— ImeXVlhat  'With  him  I  -^ 
should-45C"atreeCossack ! '  ' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  paused  and  flung  her  fan 
aside. 

^^*  I  will  tell  you  one_thing  more;  I -ha.ve  no 
distaste  for  reflection  ...  it 's  amusing,  and  "**** 
indeed  our  brains  are  given  us  for  that ;  but  on 
the  consequences  of  what  I  do  Ijnever  reflect, 
and  if  j_suffer  I  don't  pity  myself — not  a  little 
bit;  it's  not  worth  it.  I  have  a  favourite 
saying  :  Cela  ne  tire  pas  a  consequence, — I  don't 
know  how  to  say  that  in  Russian.  And  after 
all,  what  does  tire  a  consequence}  I  shan't  be 
asked  to  give  an  account  of  myself  here,  you 
see — in  this  world  ;  and  up  there  (she  pointed 
upwards  with  her  finger),  well,  up  there — let 
them  manage  as  best  they  can.  When  they 
207 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

come  to  judge  me  up  there,  /  shall  not 
be/!  Are  you  listening  to  me?  Aren't  you 
bored  ? ' 

Sanin  was  sitting  bent  up.  He  raised  his 
head.  *  I  'm  not  at  all  bored,  Maria  Nikolaevna, 
and  I  am  listening  to  you  with  curiosity.  Only 
I  .  .  .  confess  ...  I  wonder  why  you  say  all 
this  to  me  ? ' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  edged  a  little  away  on  the 
sofa. 

'  You  wonder  ?  .  .  .  Are  you  slow  to  guess  ? 
Or  so  modest?' 

Sanin  lifted  his  head  higher  than  before. 

*  I  tell  you  all  this,'  Maria  Nikolaevna  con- 
tinued in  an  unmoved  tone,  which  did  not, 
however,  at  all  correspond  with  the  expression 
of  her  face,  *  because  I  like  you  very  much  ; 
yes,  don't  be  surprised,  I  'm  not  joking ; 
because  since  I  have  met  you,  it  would  be 
painful  to  me  that  you  had  a  disagreeable 
recollection  of  me  .  .  .  not  disagreeable  even, 
that  I  shouldn't  mind,  but  untrue.  That 's  why 
I  have  made  you  come  here,  and  am  staying 
alone  with  you  and  talking  to  you  so  openly. 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes,  openly.  I  'm  not  telling  a  lie. 
And  observe,  Dimitri  Pavlovitch,  I  know  you  're 
in  love  with  another  woman,  that  you  're  going 
to  be  married  to  her.  .  .  .  Do  justice  to  my 
disinterestedness !  Though  indeed  it 's  a  good 
208 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

opportunity  for  you  to  say  in  your  turn  :  Ccla 
ne  tire  pas  a  conscquejice  ! ' 

She  laughed,  but  her  laugh  suddenly  broke 
off,  and  she  stayed  motionless,  as  though  her 
own  words  had  suddenly  struck  her,  and  in 
her  eyes,  usually  so  gay  and  bold,  there  was  a 
gleam  of  something  like  timidity,  even  like 
sadness. 

'  Snake  !  ah,  she  's  a  snake  ! '  Sanin  was 
thinking  meanwhile  ;  *  but  what  a  lovely  snake  1 ' 

'  Give  me  my  opera-glass,'  Maria  Nikolaevna 
said  suddenly.  *  I  want  to  see  whether  this 
jeime  premiere  really  is  so  ugly.  Upon  my 
word,  one  might  fancy  the  government  ap- 
pointed her  in  the  interests  of  morality,  so 
that  the  young  men  might  not  lose  their  heads 
over  her.' 

Sanin  handed  her  the  opera-glass,  and  as 
she  took  it  from  him,  swiftly,  but  hardly 
audibly,  she  snatched  his  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

'  Please  don't  be  serious,'  she  whispered  with 
a  smile.  *  Do  you  know  what,  no  one  can  put 
fetters  on  me,  but  then  you  see  I  put  no  fetters 
on  others.  I  love  freedom,  and  I  don't  ac- 
knowledge duties — not  only  for  myself.  Now 
move  to  one  side  a  little,  and  let  us  listen  to 
the  play.' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  turned  her  opera-glass 
upon  the  stage,  and  Sanin  proceeded  to  look 
o  209 


THE  TORRENTS  Cx"  SPRING 

in  the  same  direction,  sitting  beside  her  in  the 
half  dark  of  the  box,  and  involuntarily  drinking 
in  the  warmth  and  fragrance  of  her  luxurious 
body,  and  as  involuntarily  turning  over  and 
over  in  his  head  all  she  had  said  during  the 
evening — especially  during  the  last  minutes. 


XL 

The  play  lasted  over  an  hour  longer,  but 
Maria  Nikolaevna  and  Sanin  soon  gave  up 
looking  at  the  stage.  A  conversation  sprang 
up  between  them  again,  and  went  on  the  same 
lines  as  before  ;  only  this  time  Sanin  was  less 
silent.  Inwardly  he  was  angry  with  himself 
and  with  Maria  Nikolaevna ;  he  tried  to  prove 
to  her  all  the  inconsistency  of  her  '  theory,'  as 
though  she  cared  for  theories !  He  began 
arguing  with  her,  at  which  she  was  secretly 
rejoiced  ;  if  a  man  argues,  it  means  that  he  is 
giving  in  or  will  give  in.  He  had  taken  the 
bait,  was  giving  way,  had  left  off  keeping  shyly 
aloof!  She  retorted,  laughed,  agreed,  mused 
dreamily,  attacked  him  .  .  .  and  meanwhile  his 
face  and  her  face  were  close  together,  his  eyes 
no  longer  avoided  her  eyes.  .  .  .  Those  eyes  of 
hers  seemed  to  ramble,  seemed  to  hover  over 
his  features,  and  he  smiled  in  response  to  them 

2IO 


THE  TQBtAENTS  OF  SPRING 

— a  smile  of  civility,  but  still  a  smile.  It  was 
so  much  gained  for  her  that  he  had  gone  off 
into  abstractions,  that  he  was  discoursing  upon 
truth  in  personal  relations,  upon  duty,  the 
sacredness  of  love  and  marriage.  ...  It  is 
well  known  that  these- abstract  propositions 
serve  admtfaBIy  as  a  beginning  ...  as  a 
starting-point.  ... 

People  who  knew  Maria  Nikolaevna  well 
used  to  maintain  that  when  her  strong  and 
vigorous  personality  showed  signs  of  something 
soft  and  modest,  something  almost  of  maidenly 
shamefacedness,  though  one  wondered  where 
she  could  have  got  it  from  .  .  .  then  .  .  . 
then,  things  \vere  taking  a  dangerous  turn. 

Things  had  apparently  taken  such  a  turn  for 
Sanin.  .  .  .  He  would  have  felt  contempt  for 
himself,  if  he  could  have  succeeded  in  concen- 
trating his  attention  for  one  instant ;  but  he 
had  not  time  to  concentrate  his  mind  nor  to 
despise  himself. 

She  wasted  no  time.  And  it  all  came  from 
his  being  so  very  good-looking  !  One  can  but 
exclairn,  No  man  knows  what  may  be  his 
making  or  his  undoing  ! 

The  play  was  over.  Maria  Nikolaevna  asked 
Sanin  to  put  on  her  shawl  and  did  not  stir,  while 
he  wrapped  the  soft  fabric  round  her  really 
queenly   shoulders.      Then  she  took   his  arm, 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

went  out  into  the  corridor,  and  almost  cried  out 
aloud.  At  the  very  door  of  the  box  Donhof 
sprang  up  like  some  apparition  ;  while  behind 
his  back  she  got  a  glimpse  of  the  figure  of  the 
Wiesbaden  critic.  The  'literary  man's'  oily 
face  was  positively  radiant  with  malignancy. 

'  Is  it  your  wish,  madam,  that  I  find  you 
your  carriage  ? '  said  the  young  officer  address- 
ing Maria  Nikolaevna  with  a  quiver  of  ill- 
disguised  fury  in  his  voice. 

'  No,  thank  you,'  she  answered  .  .  .  '  my 
man  will  find  it.  Stop  ! '  she  added  in  an  im- 
perious whisper,  and  rapidly  withdrew  drawing 
Sanin  along  with  her. 

'  Go  to  the  devil !  Why  are  you  staring  at 
me  ? '  Donhof  roared  suddenly  at  the  literary 
man.     He  had  to  vent  his  feelings  upon  some 


one 


^  Sehr  gut !  sehrgut!'  muttered  the  literary 
man,  and  shuffled  off. 

Maria  Nikolaevna's  footman,  waiting  for  her 
in  the  entrance,  found  her  carriage  in  no  time. 
She  quickly  took  her  seat  in  it ;  Sanin  leapt  in 
after  her.  The  doors  were  slammed  to,  and 
Maria  Nikolaevna  exploded  in  a  burst  of 
laughter. 

'  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  '  Sanin  inquired. 

*  Oh,  excuse  me,  please  .  .  .  but  it  struck 
me  :  what  if  Donhof  were  to  have  another  duel 

212 


THE   TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

with  you  ...  on   my  account  ....  wouldn't 
that  be  wonderful  ? ' 

*  Are  you  very  great  friends  with  him  ? '  Sanin 
asked. 

'With   him?    that  hoy^ Hejsi  one   of  my 

followers.     You  needn't  trouble  yourself  about 
him!'"' 

'  Oh,  I  'm  not  troubling  myself  at  all.' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  sighed.  '  Ah,  I  know 
you're  not.  But  listen,  do  you  know  what, 
you  're  such  a  darling,  you  mustn't  refuse  me 
one  last  request.  Remember  in  three  days' 
time  I  am  going  to  Paris,  and  you  are  returning 
to  Frankfort.  .  .  .  Shall  we  ever  meet  again  ?  ' 

'  What  is  this  request  ?  ' 

'  You  can  ride,  of  course  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'  Well,  then,  to-morrow  morning  I  '11  take  you 
with  me,  and  we  '11  go  a  ride  together  out  of  the 
town.  We'll  have  splendid  horses.  Then  we '11 
come  home,  wind  up  our  business,  and  amen  ! 
Don't  be  surprised,  don't  tell  me  it 's  a  caprice, 
and  I  'm  a  madcap — all  that 's  very  likely — but 
simply  say,  I  consent.' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  turned  her  face  towards 
him.  It  was  dark  in  the  carriage,  but  her  eyes 
glittered  even  in  the  darkness. 

'Very  well,  I  consent,'  said  Sanin  with  a 
sigh. 

213 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  Ah !  You  sighed  ! '  Maria  Nikolaevna 
mimicked  him.  *  That  means  to  say,  as 
you  Ve  begun,  you  must  go  on  to  the  bitter 
end.  But  no,  no.  .  .  .  You  're  charming,  you  're 
good,  and  I  '11  keep  my  promise.  Here 's  my 
hand,  without  a  glove  on  it,  the  right  one,  for 
business.  Take  it,  and  have  faith  in  its 
pressure.  What  sort  of  a  woman  I  am,  I  don't 
know ;  but  I  'm  an  honest  fellow,  and  one  can 
do  business  with  me.' 

Sanin,  without  knowing  very  well  what  he 
was  doing,  lifted  the  hand  to  his  lips.  Maria 
Nikolaevna  softly  took  it,  and  was  suddenly 
still,  and  did  not  speak  again  till  the  carriage 
stopped. 

She  began  getting  out.  .  .  .  What  was  it  ? 
Sanin's  fancy?  or  did  he  really  feel  on  his 
cheek  a  swift  burning  kiss  ? 

*  Till  to-morrow  ! '  whispered  Maria  Niko- 
laevna on  the  steps,  in  the  light  of  the  four 
tapers  of  a  candelabrum,  held  up  on  her  appear-, 
ance  by  the  gold-laced  door-keeper.  She  kept 
her  eyes  cast  down.     '  Till  to-morrow  ! ' 

When  he  got  back  to  his  room,  Sanin  found 
on  the  table  a  letter  from  Gemma.     Haielt"cn 
T''      momentary  dismay ,„and  at  once  madeiiaste  to 
^^^[jCfijoice  over  it  to  disguise  his  dismay  from  him- 
self.     It   consisted    of  a  few  lines.     She  was 
delighted  at  the  *  successful  opening  of  negotia- 
214 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

tions,'  advised  him  to  be  patient,  and  added 
that  all  at  home  were  well,  and  were  already- 
rejoicing  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  him  back 
again.^  SaninJ^lt  t^^*^  ^^**^*Ty?^^ryf]ft; he  took 
pen  and  paper,  however  .  .  .  and  threw  it  all 
aside  agarn."*'-HV4t3r  write  ?  I  shall  be  back 
myselfJiiTxnofrow'TT'rit 's  high  time  ! ' 

He  went  to  bed  immediately,  and  tried  to  get 
to  sleep  as  quickly  as  possible.  If  he  had 
stayed  up  and  remained  on  his  legs,  he  would 
certainly  have  begun  thinking  about  Gemma, 
and  he  was  for  some  reason  .  .  .  ashamed  to 
think  of  her.  His  conscience  was  stirring 
within  him.  But  he  consoled  himself  with  the 
reflection  that  to-morrow  it  would  all  be  over 
for  ever,  and  he  would  take  leave  for  good  of 
this  feather-brained  lady,  and  would  forget  all 
this  rotten  idiocy !  .  .  . 

Weak — peoples-ill  their  mentah"  colloquies, 
eagerly  make  use  of  strong  expressions. 

Et  puis  ...  cela  ne  tire  pas  A  consequence  ! 


XLI 

Such  were  Sanin's  thoughts,  as  he  went  to 
bed  ;  but  what  he  thought  next  morning  when 
Maria  Nikolaevna  knocked  impatiently  at  his 
door  with  the  coral  handle  of  her  riding-whip. 


THE  TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

when  he  saw  her  in  the  doorway,  with  the  train 
of  a  dark-blue  riding  habit  over  her  arm,  with 
a  man's  small  hat  on  her  thickly  coiled  curls, 
with  a  veil  thrown  back  over  her  shoulder, 
with  a  smile  of  invitation  on  her  lips,  in  her 
eyes,  over  all  her  face — what  he  thought  then 
— history  does  not  record. 

*Well?  are  you  ready?'  rang  out  a  joyous 
voice. 

Sanin  buttoned  his  coat,  and  took  his  hat  in 
silence.  Maria  Nikolaevna  flung  him  a  bright 
look,  nodded  to  him,  and  ran  swiftly  down  the 
staircase.     And  he  ran  after  her. 

The  horses  were  already  waiting  in  the  street 
at  the  steps.  There  were  three  of  them,  a 
golden  chestnut  thorough-bred  mare,with  a  thin- 
lipped  mouth,  that  showed  the  teeth,  with  black 
prominent  eyes,  and  legs  like  a  stag's,  rather 
thin  but  beautifully  shaped,  and  full  of  fire  and 
spirit,  for  Maria  Nikolaevna ;  a  big,  powerful, 
rather  thick-set  horse,  raven  black  all  over,  for 
Sanin  ;  the  third  horse  was  destined  for  the 
groom.  Maria  Nikolaevna  leaped  adroitly  on 
to  her  mare,  who  stamped  and  wheeled  round, 
lifting  her  tail,  and  sinking  on  to  her  haunches. 
But  Maria  Nikolaevna, ~WlTO-Tva^~^r-first-r-ate 
horse-woman,  reined  her  in  ;  they  had  to  take 
leave  of  Polozov,  who  in  his  inevitable  fez  and 
in  an  open  dressing-gown,  came  out  on  to  the 
216 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

balcony,  and  from  there  waved  a  batiste  hand- 
kerchief, without  the  faintest  smile,  rather  a 
frown,  in  fact,  on  his  face.  Sanin  too  mounted 
his  horse  ;  Maria  Nikolaevna  saluted  Polozov 
with  her  whip,  then  gave  her  mare  a  lash  with 
it  on  her  arched  and  flat  neck.  The  mare 
reared  on  her  hind  legs,  made  a  dash  forward, 
moving  with  a  smart  and  shortened  step,  quiver- 
ing in  every  sinew,  biting  the  air  and  snorting 
abruptly.  Sanin  rode  behind,  and  looked  at 
Maria  Nikolaevna  ;  her  slender  supple  figure, 
moulded  by  close-fitting  but  easy  stays,  swayed 
to  and  fro  with  self-confident  grace  and  skill. 
She  turned  her  head  and  beckoned  him  with 
her  eyes  alone.     He  came  alongside  of  her. 

'  See  now,  how  delightful  it  is,'  she  said.  '  I 
tell  you  at  the  last,  before  parting,  you  are 
charming,  and  you  shan't  regret  it' 

As  she  uttered  those  last  words,  she  nodded 
her  head  several  times  as  if  to  confirm  them 
and  make  him  feel  their  full  weight. 

She  seemed  so  happy  that  Sania  was  simply 
astonished  ;  her  face  even  wore  at  times  that 
sedate  expression  which  children  sometimes 
have  when  they  are  very  .  .  .  very  much 
pleased. 

They  rode  at  a  walking  pace  for  the  short 
distance  to  the  city  walls,  but  then  started  off 
at  a  vigorous  gallop  along  the  high  road.  It 
217 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

was  magnificent,  real  summer  weather ;  the 
wind  blew  in  their  faces,  and  sang  and  whistled 
sweetly  in  their  ears.  They  felt  very  happy  ; 
the  sense  of  youth,  health  and  life,  of  free  eager 
onward  motion,  gained  possession  of  both ;  it 
grew  stronger  every  instant. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  reined  in  her  mare,  and 
again  went  at  a  walking  pace ;  Sanin  followed 
her  example. 

'This,'  she  began  with  a  deep  blissful  sigh, 
'this  now  is  the  only  thing  worth  living  for. 
When  you  succeed  in  doing  what  you  want  to, 
what  seemed  impossible — come,  enjoy  it,  heart 
and  soul,  to  the  last  drop  ! '  She  passed  her 
hand  across  her  throat.  *  And  how  good  and 
kind  one  feels  oneself  then  !  I  now,  at  this 
moment  .  .  .  how  good  I  feel !  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  embrace  the  whole  world  !  No,  not  the 
whole  world.  .  .  .  That  man  now  I  couldn't.' 
She  pointed  with  her  whip  at  a  poorly  dressed 
old  man  who  was  stealing  along  on  one  side. 
*  But  I  am  ready  to  make  him  happy.  Here, 
take  this,'  she  shouted  loudly  in  German,  and 
she  flung  a  net  purse  at  his  feet.  The  heavy 
little  bag  (leather  purses  were  not  thought  of  at 
that  time)  fell  with  a  ring  on  to  the  road.  The 
old  man  was  astounded,  stood  still,  while  Maria 
Nikolaevna  chuckled,  and  put  her  mare  into  a 
gallop. 

218 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'Do  you  enjoy  riding  so  much?'  Sanin 
asked,  as  he  overtook  her. 

Maria  Nikolaevna  reined  her  mare  in  once 
more :  only  in  this  way  could  she  bring  her  to 
a  stop. 

*  I  only  wanted  to  get  away  from  thanks. 
If  any  one  thanks  me,  he  spoils  my  pleasure. 
You  see  I  didn't  do  that  for  his  sake,  but  for 
my  own.  How  dare  he  thank  me  ?  I  didn't 
hear  what  you  asked  me.' 

*  I  asked  ...  I  wanted  to  know  what  makes 
you  so  happy  to-day.' 

'  Do  you  know  what,'  said  Maria  Nikolaevna  ; 
either  she  had  again  not  heard  Sanin's  ques- 
tion, or  she  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to 
answer  it.  *  I  'm  awfully  sick  of  that  groom, 
who  sticks  up  there  behind  us,  and  most  likely 
does  nothing  but  wonder  when  we  gentlefolks 
are  going  home  again.  How  shall  we  get  rid 
of  him  ? '  She  hastily  pulled  a  little  pocket- 
book  out  of  her  pocket.  '  Send  him  back  to 
the  town  with  a  note  ?  No  .  .  .  that  won't  do. 
Ah !  I  have  it !  What 's  that  in  front  of  us  ? 
Isn't  it  an  inn?  ' 

Sanin  looked  in  the  direction  she  pointed. 
*  Yes,  I  believe  it  is  an  inn.' 

'Well,  that's  first-rate.  I  '11  tell  him  to  stop 
at  that  inn  and  drink  beer  till  we  come  back.' 

*  But  what  will  he  think  ?  ' 

219 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

'What  does  it  matter  to  us?  Besides,  he 
won't  think  at  all ;  he  '11  drink  beer — that 's  all. 
Come,  Sanin  (it  was  the  first  time  she  had  used 
his  surname  alone),  on,  gallop  ! ' 

When  they  reached  the  inn,  Maria  Niko- 
laevna  called  the  groom  up  and  told  him  what 
she  wished  of  him.  The  groom,  a  man  of 
English  extraction  and  English  temperament, 
raised  his  hand  to  the  beak  of  his  cap  without 
a  word,  jumped  off  his  horse,  and  took  him  by 
the  bridle. 

'  Well,  now  we  are  free  as  the  birds  of  the 
air ! '  cried  Maria  Nikolaevna.  *  Where  shall 
we  go.  North,  south,  east,  or  west  .-*  Look — 
I  'm  like  the  Hungarian  king  at  his  coronation 
(she  pointed  her  whip  in  each  direction  in  turn). 
All  is  ours  !  No,  do  you  know  what :  see,  those 
glorious  mountains — and  that  forest !  Let 's 
go  there,  to  the  mountains,  to  the  mountains  ! ' 

'  In  die  Berge  zuo  die  Freihcit  thro7it ! ' 

She  turned  off  the  high-road  and  galloped 
along  a  narrow  untrodden  track,  which  certainly 
seemed  to  lead  straight  to  the  hills.  Sanin 
galloped  after  her. 

XLII 

This  track  soon  changed  into  a  tiny  footpath, 

and    at   last   disappeared    altogether,  and  was 

220 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

crossed  by  a  stream.  Sanin  counselled  turning 
back,  but  Maria  Nikolaevna  said,  '  No  !  I  want 
to  get  to  the  mountains !  Let 's  go  straight, 
as  the  birds  fly,'  and  she  made  her  mare  leap 
the  stream.  Sanin  leaped  it  too.  Beyond  the 
stream  began  a  wide  meadow,  at  first  dry,  then 
wet,  and  at  last  quite  boggy  ;  the  water  oozed 
up  everywhere,  and  stood  in  pools  in  some 
places.  Maria  Nikolaevna  rode  her  mare 
straight  through  these  pools  on  purpose, 
laughed,  and  said,  'Let's  be  naughty  children.' 

*Do  you  know,'  she  asked  Sanin,  'what  is 
meant  by  pool-hunting  ?  ' 

*  Yes,'  answered  Sanin. 

'  I  had  an  uncle  a  huntsman,'  she  went  on. 
'  I  used  to  go  out  hunting  with  him — in  the 
spring.  It  was  delicious  !  Here  we  are  now, 
on  the  pools  with  you.  Only,  I  see,  you  're  a 
Russian,  and  yet  mean  to  marry  an  Italian. 
Well,  that's  your  sorrow.  What's  that?  A 
stream  again  !     Gee  up  ! ' 

The  horse  took  the  leap,  but  Maria  Niko- 
laevna's  hat  fell  off  her  head,  and  her  curls 
tumbled  loose  over  her  shoulders.  Sanin  was 
just  going  to  get  off  his  horse  to  pick  up  the 
hat,  but  she  shouted  to  him,  '  Don't  touch  it, 
I  '11  get  it  myself,'  bent  low  down  from  the 
saddle,  hooked  the  handle  of  her  whip  into  the 
veil,  and  actually  did  get  the  hat.     She  put  it 

221 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

on  her  head,  but  did  not  fasten  up  her  hair, 
and  again  darted  off,  positively  holloaing. 
Sanin  dashed  along  beside  her,  by  her  side 
leaped  trenches,  fences,  brooks,  fell  in  and 
scrambled  out,  flew  down  hill,  flew  up  hill,  and 
kept  watching  her  face.  What  a  face  it  was  ! 
It  was  all,  as  it  were,  wide  open :  wide-open 
eyes,  eager,  bright,  and  wild ;  lips,  nostrils, 
open  too,  and  breathing  eagerly ;  she  looked 
straight  before  her,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
that  soul  longed  to  master  everything  it  saw, 
the  earth,  the  sky,  the  sun,  the  air  itself; 
and  would  complain  of  one  thing  only — that 
dangers  were  so  few,  and  all  she  could  over- 
come. 'Sanin!'  she  cried,  'why,  this  is  like 
Burger's  Lenore  !  Only  you  're  not  dead — eh  ? 
Not  dead  ...  I  am  alive  ! '  She  let  her  force 
and  daring  have  full  fling.  It  seemed  not  an 
Amazon  on  a  galloping  horse,  but  a  young 
female  centaur  at  full  speed,  half-beast  and  half- 
god,  and  the  sober,  well-bred  country  seemed 
astounded,  as  it  was  trampled  underfoot  in  her 
wild  riot! 

Maria  Nikolaevna  at  last  drew  up  her  foam- 
ing and  bespattered  mare  ;  she  was  staggering 
under  her,  and  Sanin's  powerful  but  heavy 
horse  was  gasping  for  breath. 

*  Well,  do  you  like  it  ? '  Maria  Nikolaevna 
asked  in  a  sort  of  exquisite  whisper. 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

*  I  like  it ! '  Sanin  echoed  back  ecstatically. 
And  his  blood  was  on  fire. 

'  This  isn't  all,  wait  a  bit/  She  held  out  her 
hand.     Her  glove  was  torn  across. 

'  I  told  you  I  would  lead  you  to  the  forest, 
to  the  mountains.  .  .  .  Here  they  are,  the 
mountains ! '  The  mountains,  covered  with 
tall  forest,  rose  about  two  hundred  feet  from 
the  place  they  had  reached  in  their  wild  ride. 
'  Look,  here  is  the  road  ;  let  us  turn  into  it — 
and  forwards.  Only  at  a  walk.  We  must  let 
our  horses  get  their  breath.' 

They  rode  on.  With  one  vigorous  sweep  of 
her  arm  Maria  Nikolaevna  flung  back  her  hair. 
Then  she  looked  at  her  gloves  and  took  them 
off.  '  My  hands  will  smell  of  leather,'  she  said, 
'  you  won't  mind  that,  eh  ? '  .  .  .  Maria  Niko- 
laev;Ti,a_smile.d^. and  Sanin  smiled  toa  Their 
rnad  gallop  together  seemed  to  have  finally 
brought  them  together  and  made  them  friends. 

'  How  old  are  you  ? '  she  asked  suddenly. 

*  Twenty-two.' 

'  Really  ?  I'm  twenty-two  too.  A  nice  age. 
Add  both  together  and  you  're  still  far  off  old 
age.     It'sfept,  though.     Am  I  very  red,  eh?' 

'  Like  a  poppy  ! ' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  rubbed  her  face  with 
her  handkerchief.  'We've  only  to  get  to 
the  forest  and  there  it  will  be  cool.  Such  an 
223 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

old  forest  is  like  an  old  friend.  Have  you  any 
friends  ? ' 

Sanin  thought  a  little.  '  Yes  .  .  .  only  few. 
No  real  ones.' 

'  I  have  ;  real  ones — but  not  old  ones.  This 
is  a  friend  too — a  horse.  How  carefully  it 
carries  one !  Ah,  but  it 's  splendid  here !  Is  it 
possible  I  am  going  to  Paris  the  day  after 
to-morrow  ? ' 

*Yes  ...  is  it  possible,'*'  Sanin  chimed  in. 

*  And  you  to  Frankfort  ? ' 

*  I  am  certainly  going  to  Frankfort.' 

'Well,  what  of  it?  Good  luck  go  with 
you  !  Anyway,  to-day 's  ours  .  .  .  ours  .  .  . 
ours ! ' 

The  horses  reached  the  forest's  edge  and 
pushed  on  into  the  forest.  The  broad  soft 
shade  of  the  forest  wrapt  them  round  on  all 
sides. 

*  Oh,  but  this  is  paradise  ! '  cried  Maria  Niko- 
laevna.  *  Further,  deeper  into  the  shade, 
Sanin  ! ' 

The  horses  moved  slowly  on,  '  deeper  into 
the  shade,'  slightly  swaying  and  snorting.  The 
path,  by  which  they  had  come  in,  suddenly 
turned  off  and  plunged  into  a  rather  narrow 
gorge.  The  smell  of  heather  and  bracken,  of  the 
resin  of  the  pines,  and  the  decaying  leaves  of  last 
224 


THE   TORRENTS  OF   SPRING 

year,  seemed  to  hang,  close  and  drowsy,  about 
it.  Through  the  clefts  of  the  big  brown  rocks 
came  strong  currents  of  fresh  air.  On  both 
sides  of  the  path  rose  round  hillocks  covered 
with  green  moss. 

'  Stop  ! '  cried  Maria  Nikolaevna,  '  I  want  to 
sit  down  and  rest  on  this  velvet.  Help  me  to 
get  off' 

Sanin  leaped  off  his  horse  and  ran  up  to 
her.  She  leaned  on  both  his  shoulders,  sprang 
instantly  to  the  ground,  and  seated  herself  on 
one  of  the  mossy  mounds.  He  stood  before 
her,  holding  both  the  horses'  bridles  in  his 
hand. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  him.  .  .  .  '  Sanin,  are 
you  able  to  forget  ^ ' 

Sanin  recollected  what  had  happened  yester- 
day ...  in  the  carriage.  '  What  is  that — a 
question  ...  or  a  reproach  ?  ' 

'  I  have  never  in  my  life  reproached  any  one 
for  anything.     Do  you  believe  in  magic  ? ' 

'What?' 

*  In  magic  ? — you  know  what  is  sung  of  in 
our  ballads — our  Russian  peasant  ballads  ? ' 

*  Ah !  That 's  what  you  're  speaking  of,' 
Sanin  said  slowly. 

'Yes,  that's  it.  I  believe  in  it  .  .  .  and  you 
will  believe  in  it' 

'  Magic    is    sorcery    .    .    .'    Sanin    repeated, 
p  225 


THE   TORRENTS   OF   SPRING 

*  Anything  in  di^.,  wor-ki-  is  .^^ossible.  I  used 
^Jtairio  believe  in  it-::^biit_I_do  now.  I  don't 
know  myself.' 

Maria  Nikolaevna  thought  a  moment  and 
looked  about  her.  '  I  fancy  this  place  seems 
familiar  to  me.  Look,  Sanin,  behind  that 
bushy  oak — is  there  a  red  wooden  cross,  or 
not?' 

Sanin  moved  a  few  steps  to  one  side.  'Yes, 
there  is.'  Maria  Nikolaevna  smiled.  'Ah,  that 's 
good  !  I  know  where  we  are.  We  haven't  got 
lost  as  yet.  What 's  that  tapping  ?  A  wood- 
cutter ? ' 

Sanin  looked  into  the  thicket.  'Yes  .  .  . 
there's  a  man  there  chopping  up  dry  branches.' 

'  I  must  put  my  hair  to  rights,'  said  Maria 
Nikolaevna.  '  Else  he  '11  see  me  and  be  shocked.' 
She  took  off  her  hat  and  began  plaiting  up  her 
long  hair,  silently  and  seriously.  Sanin  stood 
facing  her  .  .  .  All  the  lines  of  her  graceful 
limbs  could  be  clearly  seen  through  the  dark 
folds  of  her  habit,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
tufts  of  moss. 

One  of  the  horses  suddenly  shook  itself 
behind  Sanin's  back  ;  he  himself  started  and 
trembled  from  head  to  foot.  Everything  was 
in  confusion  within  him,  his  nerves  were  strung 
up  like  harpstrings.  He  might  well  say  he  did 
not    know    himself.  .  .  .     He    really    was    be- 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

witched.  His  whole  being  was  filled  full  of  one 
thing  .  .  .  one  idea,  one  desire.  Maria  Niko- 
laevna  turned  a  keen  look  upon  him. 

*  Come,  now  everything 's  as  it  should  be,' 
she  observed,  putting  on  her  hat.  '  Won't  you 
sit  down  ?  Here !  No,  wait  a  minute  .  .  . 
don't  sit  down  !     What 's  that  ? ' 

Over  the  tree-tops,  over  the  air  of  the  forest, 
rolled  a  dull  rumbling. 
'Can  it  be  thunder?' 

*  I  think  it  really  is  thunder,'  answered 
Sanin. 

*  Oh,  this  is  a  treat,  a  real  treat !  That  was 
the  only  thing  wanting  ! '  The  dull  rumble  was 
heard  a  second  time,  rose,  and  fell  in  a  crash. 
*  Bravo  !  Bis  1  Do  you  remember  I  spoke  of  the 
^;r^/^yesterday  ?  TAey  too  were  overtaken  by 
a  storm  in  the  forest,  you  know.  We  must  be 
off,  though.'  She  rose  swiftly  to  her  feet. 
'  Bring  me  my  horse.  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand. 
There,  so.     I  'm  not  heavy.' 

She  hopped  like  a  bird  into  the  saddle. 
Sanin  too  mounted  his  horse. 

'  Are  you  going  home  ? '  he  asked  in  an 
unsteady  voice. 

*  Home  indeed  ! '  she  answered  deliberately 
and  picked  up  the  reins.  *  Follow  me,'  she 
commanded  almost  roughly.  She  came  out 
on  to  the  road  and  passing  the  red  cross,  rode 

227 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

down  into  a  hollow,  clambered  up  again  to  a 
cross  road,  turned  to  the  right  and  again  up 
the  mountainside.  .  .  .  She  obviously  knew 
where  the  path  led,  and  the  path  led  farther 
and  farther  into  the  heart  of  the  forest.  She 
said  nothing  and  did  not  look  round  ;  she  moved 
imperiously  in  front  and  humbly  and  submis- 
sively he  followed  without  a  spark  of  will  in 
"His  sinking  heart.  Rain  began  to  fall  in  spots. 
She  quickened  her  horse's  pace,  and  he  did  not 
linger  behind  her.  At  last  through  the  dark 
green  of  the  young  firs  under  an  overhanging 
grey  rock,  a  tumbledown  little  hut  peeped 
out  at  him,  with  a  low  door  in  its  wattle 
wall.  .  .  .  Maria  Nikolaevna  made  her  mare 
push  through  the  fir  bushes,  leaped  off 
her,  and  appearing  suddenly  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  hut,  turned  to  Sanin,  and  whis- 
pered 'JEnea.s.' 

Four  hours  later,  Maria  Nikolaevna  and 
Sanin,  accompanied  by  the  groom,  who  was 
nodding  in  the  saddle,  returned  to  Wiesbaden, 
to  the  hotel.  Polozov  met  his  wife  with  the 
letter  to  the  overseer  in  his  hand.  After 
staring  rather  intently  at  her,  he  showed  signs 
of  some  displeasure  on  his  face,  and  even 
muttered,    '  You    don't    mean    to   say   you  've 

won  your  bet?'  -    -    -  """ 

228 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

Maria  Nikolaevna  simply  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

The  same  day,  two  hours  later,  Sanin  was 
standing  in  his  own  room  before  her,  like  one 
distraught,  ruined.  .  .  . 

'  Where  are  you  going,  dear  ? '  she  asked 
him.     '  To  Paris,  or  to  Frankfort  ? ' 

'  I  am  going  where  you  will  be,  and  will  be 
with  you  till  you  drive  me  away,'  he  answered 
with  despair  and  pressed  close  to  him  the 
hands  of  his  sovereign.  She  freed  her  hands, 
laid  them  on  his  head,  and  clutched  at  his  hair 
with  her  fingers.  She  slowly  turned  over  and 
twisted  the  unresisting  hair,  drew  herself  up, 
her  lips  curled  with  triumph,  while  her  eyes, 
wide  and  clear,  almost  white,  expressed  nothing 
but  the  ruthlessness  and  glutted  joy  of  con- 
quest The  hawk,  as  it  clutches  a  captured 
bird,  has  eyes  like  that 


XLIII 

This  was  what  Dimitri  Sanin  remembered 
when  in  the  stillness  of  his  room  turning  over 
his  old  papers  he  found  among  them  a  garnet 
cross.  The  events  we  have  described  rose 
clearly  and  consecutively  before  his  mental 
229 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

vision.  .  .  .  But  when  he  reached  the  moment 
when  he  addressed  that  humiliating  prayer  to 
Madame  Polozov,  when  he  grovelled  at  her 
feet,  when  his  slavery  began,  he  averted  his 
gaze  from  the  images  he  had  evoked,  he  tried 
to  recall  no  more,  And  not  that  his  memory 
failed  him,  oh  no  1  he  knew  only  too  well  what 
followed  upon  that  moment,  but  he  was  stifled 
by  shame,  even  now,  so  many  years  after ;  he 
dreaded  that  feeling  of  self-contempt,  which 
he  knew  for  certain  would  overwhelm  him, 
and  like  a  torrent,  flood  all  other  feelings  if  he 
did  not  bid  his  memory  be  still.  But  try  as  he 
would  to  turn  away  from  these  memories,  he 
could  not  stifle  them  entirely.  He  remembered 
the  scoundrelly,  tearful,  lying,  pitiful  letter  he 
had  sent  to  Gemma,  that  never  received  an 
answer.  .  .  .  See  her  again,  go  back  to  her, 
after  such  falsehood,  such  treachery,  no  !  no ! 
he  could  not,  so  much  conscience. and- holTesty 
was  left  in  him.  Moreover,  he  had  lost  every 
trace  of  confidence  in  himself,  every  atom  of 
self-respect ;  he  dared  not  rely  on  himself  for 
anything.  Sanin  recollected  too  how  he  had 
later  on — oh,  ignominy  ! — sent  the  Polozovs' 
footman  to  Frankfort  for  his  things,  what 
cowardly  terror  he  had  felt,  how  he  had  had 
one  thought  only,  to  get  away  as  soon  as 
might  be  to  Paris — to  Paris  ;  how  in  obedience 
230 


THE  TORRENTS  OF 


to  Maria  Nikolaevna,  he  b^  humoured  and 
tried  to-  .please  IppoJj^^Sidoritch  and  been 
an;iiable  to  DonhTJf,  on  whose  finger  he  noticcd"\ 
jdst  such  an  iron  rinpr  as  Maria  Niknlaeyna  hady' 
givgrriiim !  t-'f^hen  followed  memories  stiil 
worse,  more  ignominious  .  .  .  the  waiter  hands 
him  a  visiting  card,  and  on  it  is  the  name, 
'  Pantalcnne  Cippatola,  court  singer  to  His 
Highness  the  Duke  of  Modena ! '  He  hides 
from  the  old  man,  but  cannot  escape  meeting 
him  in  the  corridor,  and  a  face  of  exasperation 
rises  before  him  under  an  upstanding  topknot 
of  grey  hair ;  the  old  eyes  blaze  like  red-hot 
coals,  and  he  hears  menacing  cries  and  curses  : 
'  Maledizione  ! '  hears  even  the  terrible  words  : 
'  Codardo  !  Infame  traditore  !  '  Sanin  closes 
his  eyes,  shakes  his  head,  turns  away  again 
and  again,  but  still  he  sees  himself  sitting  in 
a  travelling  carriage  on  the  narrow  front  seat 
...  In  the  comfortable  places  facing  the  horses 
sit  Maria  Nikolaevna  and  Ippolit  Sidoritch,  the 
four  horses  trotting  all  together  fly  along  the 
paved  roads  of  Wiesbaden  to  Paris !  to  Paris ! 
Ippolit  Sidoritch  is  eating  a  pear  which  Sanin 
has  peeled  for  him,  while  Maria  Nikolaevna 
watches  him  and  smiles  at  him,  her  bondslave, 
that  smile  he  knows  already,  the  smile  of  the 
proprietor,  the  slave-owner.  .  .  .  But,  good 
God,  out  there  at  the  corner  of  the  street  not 
231 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

far  from  the  city  walls,  wasn't  it  Pantaleone 
again,  and  who  with  him  ?  Can  it  be  Emilio  ? 
Yes,  it  was  he,  the  enthusiastic  devoted  boy ! 
Not  long  since  his  young  face  had  been  full  of 
reverence  before  his  hero,  his  ideal,  but  now  his 
pale  handsome  face,  so  handsome  that  Maria 
Nikolaevna  noticed  him  and  poked  her  head 
out  of  the  carriage  window,  that  noble  face  is 
glowing  with  anger  and  contempt ;  his  eyes,  so 
like  her  eyes  !  are  fastened  upon  Sanin,  and  the 
tightly  compressed  lips  part  to  revile  him.  .  .  . 

And  Pantaleone  stretches  out  his  hand  and 
points  Sanin  out  to  Tartaglia  standing  near, 
and  Tartaglia  barks  at  Sanin,  and  the  very 
bark  of  the  faithful  dog  sounds  like  an  un- 
bearable reproach.  .  .  .  Hideous  ! 

And  then,  the  life  in  Paris,  and  all  the 
humiliations,  all  the  loathsome  tortures  of  the 
slave,  who  dare  not  be  jealous  or  complain,  and 
who  is  cast  aside  at  last,  like  a  worn-out  gar- 
ment. .  .  . 

Then  the  going  home  to  his  own  country, 
the  poisoned,  the  devastated  life,  the  petty 
interests  and  petty  cares,  bitter  and  fruitless 
regret,  and  as  bitter  and  fruitless  apathy,  a 
punishment  not  apparent,  but  of  every  minute, 
continuous,  like  some  trivial  but  incurable 
disease,  the  payment  farthing  by  farthing  of 
the  debt,  which  can  never  be  settled.  .  .  . 
232 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 
The  cup  was  full  enough. 

How  had  the  garnet  cross  given  Sanin  by 
Gemma  existed  till  now,  why  had  he  not  sent 
it  back,  how  had  it  happened  that  he  had 
never  come  across  it  till  that  day  ?  A  long, 
long  while  he  sat  deep  in  thought,  and  taught 
as  he  was  by  the  experience  of  so  many  years, 
he  still  could  not  comprehend  how  he  could 
have-~^€sertcd  Genimai  so  tenderly  and  pas- 
sionately loved,  for  a  woman  he  did  not  love 
at  all.  .  .  .  Next  day  he  surprised  all  his 
friends  and  acquaintances  by  announcing  that 
he  was  going  abroad. 

The  surprise  was  general  in  society.  Sanin 
was  leaving  Petersburg,  in  the  middle  of  the 
winter,  after  having  only  just  taken  and  fur- 
nished a  capital  flat,  and  having  even  secured 
seats  for  all  the  performances  of  the  Italian 
O^era,  in  which  Madame  Patti  .  .  .  Patti,  her- 
self, herself,  was  to  take  part !  TTis  friends  and 
acquaintances  wondered  ;  but  it  is  not  human 
nature  as  a  rule  to  be  interested  long  in  other 
people's  affairs,  and  when  Sanin  set  off  for 
abroad,  none  came  to  the  railway  station  to  see 
him  off  but  a  French  tailor,  and  he  only  in  the 
hope  of  securing  an  unpaid  account  'pour  U7i 
saute  -  en  -  barque  en  velours  7ioir  tout  a  fait 
chic' 

233 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 


XLIV  / 

Sanin  told  his  friends  he  was  going  abroad, 
but  he  did  not  say  where  exactly :  the  reader^ 
will  readily  conjecture  that  he  made  straight 
for  Frankfort.  Thanks  to  the  general  exten- 
sion of  railways,  on  the  fourth  day  after  leaving 
Petersburg  he  was  there.  He  had  not  visited 
the  place  since  1840.  The  hotel,  the  White 
Swan,  was  standing  in  its  old  place  and  still 
flourishing,  though  no  longer  regarded  as  first 
class.  The  Zeile,  the  principal  street  of  Frank- 
fort was  little  changed,  but  there  was  not  only 
no  trace  of  Signora  Roselli's  house,  the  very 
street  in  which  it  stood  had  disappeared.  Sanin 
wandered  like  a  man  in  a  dream  about  the  places 
once  so  familiar,  and  recognised  nothing ;  the 
old  buildings  had  vanished ;  they  were  re- 
placed by  new  streets  of  huge  continuous 
houses  and  fine  villas ;  even  the  public  garden, 
where  that  last  interview  with  Gemma  had 
taken  place,  had  so  grown  up  and  altered  that 
Sanin  wondered  if  it  really  were  the  same 
garden.  What  was  he  to  do  ?  How  and 
where  could  he  get  information  ?  Thirty^ 
years,  no  little  thing !  had  passed  since  those 
days.  No  one  to  whom  he  applied  had  even 
heard  of  the  name  Roselli  ;  the  hotel-keeper 
234 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

advised  him  to  have  recourse  to  the  pubh'c 
library,  there,  he  told  him,  he  would  find  all  the 
old  newspapers,  but  what  good  he  would  get 
from  that,  the  hotel-keeper  owned  he  didn't 
see.  Sanin  in  despair  made  inquiries  about 
Herr  Kliiber.  That  name  the  hotel-keeper 
knew  well,  but  there  too  no  success  awaited 
him.  The  elegant  shop-manager,  after  making 
much  noi?e  in  th^  jv2]ld.^fl^..ri^ii:ig„  to  the 
position  of  a"  capitalist,  had  speculated,  was 
made  bankrupt,  and  died  in  prison.  .  .  .  This 
piece  of  news  did  not,  however,  occasion  Sanin 
the  slightest  regret.  He  was  beginning  to  feel 
that  his  journey  had  been  rather  precipitate. 
.  .  .  But,  behold,  one  day,  as  he  was  turning 
over  a  Frankfort  directory,  he  came  on  the 
name :  Von  Donhof, retired  major.  He  promptly 
took  a  carriage  and  drove  to  the  address,  though 
why  was  this  Von  Donhof  certain  to  be  that 
Donhof,  and  why  even  was  the  right  Donhof 
likely  to  be  able  to  tell  him  any  news  of  the 
Roselli  family?  No  matter,  a  drowning  man 
catches  at  straws. 

Sanin  found  the  retired  major  von  Donhof  at 
home,  and  in  the  grey-haired  gentleman  who 
received  him  he  recognised  at  once  his  adversary 
of  bygone  days.  Donhof  knew  him  too,  and 
was  positively  delighted  to  see  him  ;  he  recalled 
to  him  his  young  days,  the  escapades  of  his 
235 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

youth.  Sanin  heard  from  him  that  the  Roselli 
family  had  long,  long  ago  emigrated  to  America, 
to  New  York  ;  that  Gemma  had  married  a 
merchant ;  that  he,  Donhof,  had  an  acquaint- 
ance also  a  merchant,  who  would  probably 
know  her  husband's  address,  as  he  did  a  great 
deal  of  business  with  America.  Sanin  begged 
Donhof  to  consult  this  friend,  and,  to  his 
delight,  Donhof  brought  him  the  address  of 
Gemma's  husband,  Mr.  Jeremy  Slocum,  New 
York,  Broadway,  No.  501.  Only  this  address 
dated  from  the  year  1863. 

*  Let  us  hope,'  cried  Donhof,  '  that  our  Frank- 
fort belle  is  still  alive  and  has  not  left  New 
York !  By  the  way,'  he  added,  dropping  his 
voice,  '  what  about  that  Russian  lady,  who  was 
staying,  do  you  remember,  about  that  time  at 
Wiesbaden — Madame  von  Bo  .  .  .  von  Bolozov, 
is  she  still  living  ?  ' 

*  No,'  answered  Sanin,  '  she  died  long  ago.' 
Donhof  looked  up,  but  observing  that  Sanin 

had  turned  away  and  was  frowning,  he  did 
not  say  another  word,  but  took  his  leave. 

That  same  day  Sanin  sent  a  letter  to  Madame 
Gemma  Slocum,  at  New  York.  In  the  letter 
he  told  her  he  was  writing  to  her  from  Frank- 
fort, where  he  had  come  solely  with  the  object 
of  finding  traces  of  her,  that  he  was  very  well 
236 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

aware  that  he  was  absolutely  without  a  right 
to  expect  that  she  would  answer  his  appeal  ; 
that  he  had  not  deserved  her  forgiveness,  and 
could  only  hope  that  among  happy  surround- 
ings she  had  long  ago  forgotten  his  existence. 
He  added  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
recall  himself  to  her  memory  in  consequence  of 
a  chance  circumstance  which  had  too  vividly 
brought  back  to  him  the  images  of  the  past ; 
he  described  his  life,  solitary,  childless,  joyless ; 
he  implored  her  to  understand  the  grounds 
that  had  induced  him  to  address  her,  not  to 
let  him  carry  to  the  grave  the  bitter  sense  of 
his  own  wrongdoing,  expiated  long  since  by 
suffering,  but  never  forgiven,  and  to  make  him 
happy  with  even  the  briefest  news  of  her  life  in 
the  new  world  to  which  she  had  gone  away. 
'  In  writing  one  word  to  me,'  so  Sanin  ended 
his  letter,  'you  will  be  doing  a  good  action 
worthy  of  your  noble  soul,  and  I  shall  thank 
you  to  my  last  breath.  I  am  stopping  here  at 
the  White  Swan  (he  underlined  those  words) 
and  shall  wait,  wait  till  spring,  for  your  answer.' 
He  despatched  this  letter,  ^nd-..proceeded  to 
wait.  For  six  whole  weeks  he  lived  in  the 
hotel,  scarcely  leaving  his  room,  and  resolutely 
seeing  no  one.  No  one  could  write  to  him 
from  Russia  nor  from  anywhere ;  and  that  just 
suited  his  mood  ;  if  a  letter  came  addressed  to 
237 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

him  he  would  know  at  once  that  it  was  the  one 
he  was  waiting  for.  He  read  from  morning 
till  evening,  and  not  journals,  but  serious  books 
— historical  works.  These  prolonged  studies, 
this  stillness,  this  hidden  life,  like  a  snail  in  its 
shell,  suited  his  spiritual  condition  to  perfec- 
tion ;  and  for  this,  if  nothing  more,  thanks  to 
Gemma !  But  was  she  alive  ?  Would  she 
answer? 

At  last  a  letter  came,  with  an  American 
postmark,  from  New  York,  addressed  to  him. 
The  handwriting  of  the  address  on  the  envelope 
was  English.  .  .  .  He  did  not  recognise  it,  and 
there  was  a  pang  at  his  heart.  He  could  not 
at  once  bring  himself  to  break  open  the  en- 
velope. He  glanced  at  the  signature — Gemma  ! 
The  tears  positively  gushed  from  hts-^yes  :  the 
mere  fact  that  she  signed  her  name,  without  a 
surname,  was  a  pledge  to  him  of  reconciliation, 
of  forgiveness  !  He  unfolded  the  thin  sheet  of 
blue  notepaper :  a  photograph  slipped  out. 
He  made  haste  to  pick  it  up — and  was  struck 
dumb  with  amazement :  Gemma,  Gemma  living, 
young  as  he  had  known  her  thirty  years  ago  ! 
The  same  eyes,  the  same  lips,  the  same  form 
of  the  whole  face  !  On  the  back  of  the  photo- 
graph was  written,  'My  daughter  Mariana,' 
The  whole  letter  was  very  kind  and  shnple*. 
Gemma  thanked  Sanin  for  not  having  hesitated 
238 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

to  write  to  her,  for  having  confidence  in  her  ; 
she  did  not  conceal  from  him  that  she  had 
passed  some  painful  moments  after  his  dis- 
appearance, but  she  added  at  once  that  for 
all  that  she  considered — and  had  always  con- 
sidered— her  meeting  him  as  a  happy  thing, 
seeing  that  it  was'thar  meeting  which  had 
prevented  her  from  becoming  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Kluber,  and  in  that  way,.,  though  indirectly, 
had  led  to  her  marriage  with  her  husband,  with 
whom  she  had  now  lived  twenty- eight  years, 
in  perfect  happiness,  comfort,  and  prosperity ; 
their  house  was  known  to  every  one  in  New 
York.  Gemma  informed  Sanin  that  she  was 
the  mother  of  five.children,  four  sons  and  one 
daughter,  a  girl  of  eighteen,  engaged  to  be 
married,  and  her  photograph  she  enclosed  as 
she  was  generally  considered  very  like  her 
mother.  The  sorrowful  news  Gemma  kept  for 
the  end  of  the  letter.  Frau  Lenore  had  died 
in  New  York,  where  she  had  followed  her 
daughter  and  son-in-law,  but  she  had  lived 
long  enough  to  rejoice  in  her  children's  happi- 
ness and  to  nurse  her  grandchildren.  Panta- 
leone,  too,  had  meant  to  come  out  to  America, 
but  he  had  died  on  the  very  eve  of  leaving 
Frankfort.  '  Emilio,  our  beloved,  incomparable 
Emilio,  died  a  glorious  death  for  the  freedom 
of  his  country  in  Sicily,  where  he  was  one  of 
239 


THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING 

the  "Thousand"  under  the  leadership  of  the 
great  Garibaldi ;  we  all  bitterly  lamented  the 
loss  of  our  priceless  brother,  but,  even  in 
the  midst  of  our  tears,  we  were  proud  of  him 
— and  shall  always  be  proud  of  him — and  hold 
his  memory  sacred  !  His  lofty,  disinterested 
soul  was  worthy  of  a  martyr's  crown  ! '  Then 
Gemma  expressed  her  regret  that  Sanin's  life 
had  apparently  been  so  unsuccessful,  wished 
him  before  everything  peace  and  a  tranquil 
spirit,  and  said  that  she  would  be  very  glad  to 
see  him  again,  though  she  realised  how  unlikely 
such  a  meeting  was.  .  .  . 

We  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  feelings 
Sanin  experienced  as  he  read  this  letter.  For  such 
feelings  there  is  no  satisfactory  expression ;  they 
are  too  deep  and  too  strong  and  too  vague  for 
any  word.      Only  music  could  reproduce  them.^ 

Sanin  answered  at  once  ;  and  as  a  wedding 
gift  to  the  young  girl,  sent  to  '  Mariana  Slocum, 
from  an  unknown  friend,'  a  garnet  cross,  set  in 
a  magnificent  pearl  necklace.  This  present, 
costly  as  it  was,  did  not  ruin  him  ;  during  the 
thirty  years  that  had  elapsed  since  his  first 
visit  to  Frankfort,  he  had  succeeded  in  ac- 
cumulating a  considerable  fortune.  Early  in 
May  he  went  back  to  Petersburg,  but  hardly 
for  long.  It  is  rumoured  that  he  is  selling  all 
his  lands  and  preparing  to  go  to  America. 
240 


FIRST    LOVE 

The  party  had  long  ago  broken  up.  The 
clock  struck  half-past  twelve.  There  was  left 
in  the  room  only  the  master  of  the  house  and 
Sergei  Nikolaeyitch  and  Vladimir  Petrovitch.  -^-' 

The  master  of  the  house  rang  and  ordered 
the  remains  of  the  supper  to  be  cleared  away. 
'  And  so  it 's  settled,'  he  observed,  sitting 
back  farther  in  his  easy-chair  and  lighting 
a  cigar ;  '  each  of  us  is  to  tell  the  story  of  his 
first  love.     It's  your  turn,  Sergei  Nikolaevitch.' 

Sergei  Nikolaevitch,  a  round  little  man  with 
a  plump,  light-complexioned  face,  gazed  first 
at  the  master  of  the  house,  then  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  ceiling.  '  I  had  no  first  love,'  he  said  at 
last ;  '  I  began  with  the  second.' 

'  How  was  that  ? ' 

'It's  very  simple.  I  was  eighteen  when  I 
had  my  first  flirtation  with  a  charming  young 
lady,  but  I  courted  her  just  as  though  it  were 
nothing  new  to  me ;  just  as  I  courted  others 
later  on.  To  speak  accurately,  the  first  and 
last  time  I  was  in  love  was  with  my  nurse 
when  I  was  six  years  old  ;  but  that 's  in  the 
remote  past.  The  details  of  our  relations  have 
slipped  out  of  my  memory,  and  even  if  I 
remembered  them,  whom  could  they  interest  ? ' 
Q  241 


FIRST   LOVE 

'Then  how's  it  to  be?'  began  the  master 
of  the  house.  '  There  was  nothing  much  of 
interest  about  my  first  love  either ;  I  never  fell 
in  love  with  any  one  till  I  met  Anna  Nikolaevna,  - 
now  my  wife, — and  everything  went  as  smoothly 
as  possible  with  us  ;  our  parents  arranged  the 
match,  we  were  very  soon  in  love  with  each 
other,  and  got  married  without  loss  of  time.  My 
story  can  be  told  in  a  couple  of  words.  I  must 
confess,  gentlemen,  in  bringing  up  the  subject  of 
first  love,  I  reckoned  upon  you,  I  won't  say  old, 
but  no  longer  young,  bachelors.  Can't  you  en- 
liven us  with  something,  Vladimir  Petrovitch  ? ' 

'  My  first  love,  certainly,  was  not  quite  an 
ordinary  one,'  responded,  with  some  reluctance, 
Vladimir  Petrovitch,  a  man  of  forty,  with  black 
hair  turning  grey. 

'  Ah ! '  said  the  master  of  the  house  and 
Sergei  Nikolaevitch  with  one  voice :  '  So 
much  the  better.  .  .  .  Tell  us  about  it.' 

'  If  you  wish  it  ...  or  no ;  I  won't  tell  the  story ; 
I  'm  no  hand  at  telling  a  story ;  I  make  it  dry  and 
brief,  or  spun  out  and  affected.  If  you'll  allow 
me,  I  '11  write  out  all  I  remember  and  read  it  you.' 

His  friends  at  first  would  not  agree,  but 
Vladimir  Petrovitch  insisted  on  his  own  way. 
A  fortnight  later  they  were  together  again,  and 
Vladimir  Petrovitch  kept  his  word. 

His    manuscript    contained     the     following 

story  : — 

242 


FIRST   LOVE 


I 

I  WAS  sixteen  then.  It  happened  in  the 
summer  of  1833. 

I  lived  in  ^loscow  with  my  parents.  They 
had  taken  a  country  house  for  the  summer 
near  the  Kalouga  gate,  facing  the  Neskutchny 
gardens.  I  was  preparing  for  the  university, 
but  did  not  work  much  and  was  in  no  hurry. 

No  one  interfered  with  my  freedom.  I  did 
what  I  Hked,  especially  after  parting  with  my 
last  tutor,  a  Frenchman  who  had  never  been 
able  to  get  used  to  the  idea  that  he  had  fallen 
*  like  a  bomb '  {conune  une  bonibe)  into  Russia, 
and  would  lie  sluggishly  in  bed  with  an  expres- 
sion of  exasperation  on  his  face  for  days 
together.  My  father  treated  me  with  careless 
kindness;  my  mother  scarcely  noticed  me, 
though  she  had  no  children  except  me ;  other 
cares  completely  absorbed  her.  My  father,  a 
man  still  young  and  very  handsome,  had 
married  her  from  mercenary  considerations;  she 
was  ten  years  older  than  he.  My  mother  led 
243 


FIRST  LOVE 

a  melancholy  life ;  she  was  for  ever  agitated, 
jealous  and  angry,  but  not  in  my  father's  pre- 
sence ;  she  was  very  much  afraid  of  him,  and 
he  was  severe,  cold,  and  distant  in  his  be- 
haviour. ...  I  have  never  seen  a  man  more 
elaborately  serene,  self-confident,  and  com- 
manding. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  weeks  I  spent 
at  the  country  house.  The  weather  was 
magnificent ;  we  left  town  on  the  9th  of  May, 
on  St.  Nicholas's  day.  I  used  to  walk  about 
in  our  garden,  in  the  Neskutchny  gardens,  and 
beyond  the  town  gates;  I  would  take  some 
book  with  me — Keidanov's  Course,  for  instance 
— but  I  rarely  looked  into  it,  and  more  often 
than  anything  declaimed  verses  aloud  ;  I  knew 
a  great  deal  of  poetry  by  heart ;  my  blood  was 
in  a  ferment  and  my  heart  ached — so  sweetly 
and  absurdly ;  I  was  all  hope  and  anticipation, 
was  a  little  frightened  of  something,  and  full  of 
wonder  at  everything,  and  was  on  the  tiptoe 
of  expectation  ;  my  imagination  played  con- 
tinually, fluttering  rapidly  about  the  same 
fancies,  like  martins  about  a  bell-tower  at 
dawn ;  I  dreamed,  was  sad,  even  wept ;  but 
through  the  tears  and  through  the  sadness, 
inspired  by  a  musical  verse,  or  the  beauty  of 
evening,  shot  up  like  grass  in  spring  the 
delicious  sense  of  youth  and  effervescent  life. 
244 


FIRST  LOVE 

I  had  a  horse  to  ride  ;  I  used  to  saddle  it 
myself  and  set  off  alone  for  long  rides,  break 
into  a  rapid  gallop  and  fancy  myself  a  knight 
at  a  tournament.  How  gaily  the  wind  whistled 
in  my  ears !  or  turning  my  face  towards  the 
sky,  I  would  absorb  its  shining  radiance  and 
blue  into  my  soul,  that  opened  wide  to  wel- 
come it. 

I  remember  that  at  that  time  the  image  of 
woman,  the  vision  of  love,  scarcely  ever  arose 
in  definite  shape  in  my  brain ;  but  in  all  I 
thought,  in  all  I  felt,  lay  hidden  a  half-con- 
scious, shamefaced  presentiment  of  something 
new,  unutterably  sweet,  feminine.  .  .  . 

This  presentiment,  this  expectation,  per- 
meated my  whole  being ;  I  breathed  in  it,  it 
coursed  through  my  veins  with  every  drop  of 
blood  ...  it  was  destined  to  be  soon  fulfilled. 

The  place,  where  we  settled  for  the  summer, 
consisted  of  a  wooden  manor-house  with 
columns  and  two  small  lodges ;  in  the  lodge  on 
the  left  there  was  a  tiny  factory  for  the  manu- 
facture of  cheap  wall-papers.  ...  I  had  more 
than  once  strolled  that  way  to  look  at  about  a 
dozen  thin  and  dishevelled  boys  with  greasy 
smocks  and  worn  faces,  who  were  perpetually 
jumping  on  to  wooden  levers,  that  pressed 
down  the  square  blocks  of  the  press,  and  so  by 
the  weight  of  their  feeble  bodies  struck  off  the 
245 


FIRST   LOVE 

variegated  patterns  of  the  wall-papers.  The 
lodge  on  the  right  stood  empty,  and  was  to 
let.  One  day — three  weeks  after  the  9th  of 
May — the  blinds  in  the  windows  of  this  lodge 
were  drawn  up,  women's  faces  appeared  at 
them — some  family  had  installed  themselves 
in  it.  I  remember  the  same  day  at  dinner,  my 
mother  inquired  of  the  butler  who  were  our 

(new  neighbours,  and  hearing  the  name  of  the 
Princess  Zasyekin,  first  observed  with  some 
respect,  '  Ah  !  a  princess  ! '  .  .  .  and  then  added, 
*  A  poor  one,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  They  arrived  in  three  hired  flies,'  the  butler 
remarked  deferentially,  as  he  handed  a  dish  : 
'  they  don't  keep  their  own  carriage,  and  the 
furniture 's  of  the  poorest' 

'  Ah,'  replied  my  mother,  '  so  much  the  better.' 

My  father  gave  her  a  chilly  glance  ;  she  was 
silent. 

Certainly  the  Princess  Zasyekin  could  not  be 
a  rich  woman  ;  the  lodge  she  had  taken  was  so 
dilapidated,  and  small  and  low-pitched  that 
people,  even  moderately  well-off  in  the  world, 
would  hardly  have  consented  to  occupy  it.  At 
the  time,  however,  all  this  went  in  at  one  ear 
and  out  at  the  other.  The  princely  title  had 
very  little  effect  on  me  ;  I  had  just  been  read- 


ing Schiller's  Rodders. 


246 


FIRST   LOVE 


II 


I  WAS  in  the  habit  of  wandering  about  our 
garden  every  evening  on  the  look-out  for  rooks. 
I  had  long  cherished  a  hatred  for  those  wary, 
sly,  and  rapacious  birds.  On  the  day  of  which 
I  have  been  speaking,  I  went  as  usual  into  the 
garden,  and  after  patrolling  all  the  walks  with- 
out success  (the  rooks  knew  me,  and  merely 
cawed  spasmodically  at  a  distance),  I  chanced 
to  go  close  to  the  low  fence  which  separated 
our  domain  from  the  narrow  strip  of  garden 
stretching  beyond  the  lodge  to  the  right,  and 
belonging  to  it  I  was  walking  along,  my  eyes 
on  the  ground.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  voice ; 
I  looked  across  the  fence,  and  was  thunder- 
struck. ...  I  was  confronted  with  a  curious 
spectacle. 

A  few  paces  from  me  on  the  grass  between 
the  green  raspberry  bushes  stood  a  tall  slender 
girl  in  a  striped  pink  dress,  with  a  white  kerchief 
on  her  head  ;  four  young  men  were  close  round 
her,  and  she  was  slapping  them  by  turns 
on  the  forehead  with  those  small  grey  flowers, 
the  name  of  which  I  don't  know,  though  they 
are  well  known  to  children  ;  the  flowers  form 
little  bags,  and  burst  open  with  a  pop  when 
you  strike  them  against  anything  hard.  The 
247 


FIRST   LOVE 

young  men  presented  their  foreheads  so  eagerly, 
and  in  the  gestures  of  the  girl  (I  saw  her  in 
profile),  there  was  something  so  fascinating, 
imperious,  caressing,  mocking,  and  charming, 
that  I  almost  cried  out  with  admiration  and 
delight,  and  would,  I  thought,  have  given  every- 
thing in  the  world  on  the  spot  only  to  have 
had  those  exquisite  fingers  strike  me  on  the 
forehead.  My  gun  slipped  on  to  the  grass,  I 
forgot  everything,  I  devoured  with  my  eyes  the 
graceful  shape  and  neck  and  lovely  arms  and 
the  slightly  disordered  fair  hair  under  the  white 
kerchief,  and  the  half-closed  clever  eye,  and  the 
eyelashes  and  the  soft  cheek  beneath  them.  .  .  . 

'  Young  man,  hey,  young  man,'  said  a  voice 
suddenly  near  me :  *  is  it  quite  permissible  to 
stare  so  at  unknown  young  ladies  ?  ' 

I  started,  I  was  struck  dumb.  .  .  .  Near  me, 
the  other  side  of  the  fence,  stood  a  man  with 
close-cropped  black  hair,  looking  ironically  at 
me.  At  the  same  instant  the  girl  too  turned 
towards  me.  ...  I  caught  sight  of  big  grey 
eyes  in  a  bright  mobile  face,  and  the  whole 
face  suddenly  quivered  and  laughed,  there  was 
a  flash  of  white  teeth,  a  droll  lifting  of  the  eye- 
brows. ...  I  crimsoned,  picked  up  my  gun 
from  the  ground,  and  pursued  by  a  musical  but 
not  ill-natured  laugh,  fled  to  my  own  room, 
flung  myself  on  the  bed,  and  hid  my  face  in  my 
248 


FIRST   LOVE 

hands.  My  heart  was  fairly  leaping ;  I  was 
greatly  ashamed  and  overjoyed  ;  I  felt  an 
excitement  I  had  never  known  before. 

After  a  rest,  I  brushed  my  hair,  washed,  and 
went  downstairs  to  tea.  The  image  of  the 
young  girl  floated  before  me,  my  heart  was  no 
longer  leaping,  but  was  full  of  a  sort  of  sweet 
oppression. 

'  What 's  the  matter  ? '  my  father  asked  me  all 
at  once  :  *  have  you  killed  a  rook  ? ' 

I  was  on  the  point  of  telling  him  all  about 
it,  but  I  checked  myself,  and  merely  smiled  to 
myself.  As  I  was  going  to  bed,  I  rotated — I 
don't  know  why — three  times  on  one  leg, 
pomaded  my  hair,  got  into  bed,  and  slept  like 
a  top  all  night.  Before  morning  I  woke  up  for 
an  instant,  raised  my  head,  looked  round  me  in 
ecstasy,  and  fell  asleep  again. 


Ill 


'How  can  I  make  their  acquaintance?'  was 
my  first  thought  when  I  waked  in  the  morning. 
I  went  out  in  the  garden  before  morning  tea, 
but  I  did  not  go  too  near  the  fence,  and  saw 
no  one.  After  drinking  tea,  I  walked  several 
times  up  and  down  the  street  before  the  house, 
and  looked  into  the  windows  from  a  distance. 
249 


FIRST   LOVE 

...  I  fancied  her  face  at  a  curtain,  and  I 
hurried  away  in  alarm. 

'  I  must  make  her  acquaintance,  though/  I 
thought,  pacing  distractedly  about  the  sandy 
plain  that  stretches  before  Neskutchny  park 
.  .  .  '  but  how,  that  is  the  question.'  I  recalled 
the  minutest  details  of  our  meeting  yesterday  ; 
I  had  for  some  reason  or  other  a  particularly 
vivid  recollection  of  how  she  had  laughed  at 
me.  .  .  .  But  while  I  racked  my  brains,  and 
made  various  plans,  fate  had  already  provided 
for  me. 

In  my  absence  my  mother  had  received  from 
her  new  neighbour  a  letter  on  grey  paper, 
sealed  with  brown  wax,  such  as  is  only  used  in 
notices  from  the  post-office  or  on  the  corks  of 
bottles  of  cheap  wine.  In  this  letter,  which  was 
written  in  illiterate  language  and  in  a  slovenly 
hand,  the  princess  begged  my  mother  to  use 
her  powerful  influence  in  her  behalf;  my 
mother,  in  the  words  of  the  princess,  was  very 
intimate  with  persons  of  high  position,  upon 
whom  her  fortunes  and  her  children's  fortunes 
depended,  as  she  had  some  very  important 
business  in  hand.  '  I  address  myself  to  you,' 
she  wrote,  '  as  one  gentlewoman  to  another 
gentlewoman,  and  for  that  reason  am  glad  to 
avail  myself  of  the  opportunity.'  Concluding, 
she  begged  my  mother's  permission  to  call  upon 
250 


FIRST   LOVE 

her.  I  found  my  mother  in  an  unpleasant 
state  of  indecision  ;  my  father  was  not  at  home, 
and  she  had  no  one  of  whom  to  ask  advice. 
Not  to  answer  a  gentlewoman,  and  a  princess 
into  the  bargain,  was  impossible.  But  my 
mother  was  in  a  difficulty  as  to  how  to  answer 
her.  To  write  a  note  in  French  struck  her  as 
unsuitable,  and  Russian  spelling-  was  not  a 
strong  point  with  my  mother  herself,  and  she 
was  aware  of  it,  and  did  not  care  to  expose 
herself.  She  was  overjoyed  when  I  made  my 
appearance,  and  at  once  told  me  to  go  round 
to  the  princess's,  and  to  explain  to  her  by  word 
of  mouth  that  my  mother  would  always  be  glad 
to  do  her  excellency  any  service  within  her 
powers,  and  begged  her  to  come  to  see  her  at 
one  o'clock.  This  unexpectedly  rapid  fulfil- 
ment of  my  secret  desires  both  delighted  and 
appalled  me.  I  made  no  sign,  however,  of  the 
perturbation  which  came  over  me,  and  as  a 
preliminary  step  went  to  my  own  room  to  put 
on  a  new  necktie  and  tail  coat ;  at  home  I  still 
wore  short  jackets  and  lay-down  collars,  much 
as  I  abominated  them. 


IV 


In    the    narrow    and    untidy   passage    of  the 

lodge,   which    I    entered   with   an    involuntary 

251 


FIRST   LOVE 

tremor  in  all  my  limbs,  I  was  met  by  an  old 
grey-headed  servantwith  a  dark  copper-coloured 
face,  surly  little  pig's  eyes,  and  such  deep 
furrows  on  his  forehead  and  temples  as  I  had 
never  beheld  in  my  life.  He  was  carrying  a 
plate  containing  the  spine  of  a  herring  that  had 
been  gnawed  at  ;  and  shutting  the  door  that 
led  into  the  room  with  his  foot,  he  jerked  out, 
'  What  do  you  want  ?  ' 

'  Is  the  Princess  Zasyekin  at  home  ? '  I 
inquired. 

'Vonifaty!'  a  jarring  female  voice  screamed 
from  within. 

The  man  without  a  word  turned  his  back  on 
me,  exhibiting  as  he  did  so  the  extremely 
threadbare  hindpart  of  his  livery  with  a  solitary 
reddish  heraldic  button  on  it ;  he  put  the  plate 
down  on  the  floor,  and  went  away. 

*  Did  you  go  to  the  police  station  ?  '  the  same 
female  voice  called  again.  The  man  muttered 
something  in  reply.  '  Eh.  .  .  .  Has  some  one 
come  ? '  I  heard  again.  .  .  .  '  The  young  gentle- 
man from  next  door.     Ask  him  in,  then.' 

'  Will  you  step  into  the  drawing-room  ? '  said 
the  servant,  making  his  appearance  once  more, 
and  picking  up  the  plate  from  the  floor.  I 
mastered  my  emotions,  and  went  into  the 
drawing-room. 

I  found  myself  in  a  small  and  not  over  clean 
252 


FIRST   LOVE 

apartment,  containing  some  poor  furniture  that 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  hurriedly  set  down  where 
it  stood.  At  the  window  in  an  easy-chair 
with  a  broken  arm  was  sitting  a  woman  of 
fifty,  bareheaded  and  ugly,  in  an  old  green 
dress,  and  a  striped  worsted  wrap  about 
her  neck.  Her  small  black  eyes  fixed  me 
like  pins. 

I  went  up  to  her  and  bowed. 

'  I  have  the  honour  of  addressing  the  Princess 
Zasyekin  ? ' 

'  I  am  the  Princess  Zasyekin  ;  and  you  are  the 
son  of  Mr.  V.  ? ' 

'  Yes.  I  have  come  to  you  with  a  message 
from  my  mother.' 

'  Sit  down,  please.  Vonifaty,  where  are  my 
keys,  have  you  seen  them  ? ' 

I  communicated  to  Madame  Zasyekin  my 
mother's  reply  to  her  note.  She  heard  me  out, 
drumming  with  her  fat  red  fingers  on  the 
window-pane,  and  when  I  had  finished,  she 
stared  at  me  once  more. 

'  Very   good ;    I  '11    be   sure    to    come,'   she 
observed  at  last.     *  But  how  young  you  are  ! 
How  old  are  you,  may  I  ask  ? ' 
r^  *  Sixteen,'    I    replied,    with    an    involuntary 
stammer. 

The  princess  drew  out  of  her  pocket  some 
greasy  papers  covered  with  writing,  raised  them 
2S3 


FIRST   LOVE 

right  up  to  her  nose,  and  began  looking  through 
them. 

*  A  good  age,'  she  ejaculated  suddenly,  turn- 
ing round  restlessly  on  her  chair.  '  And  do 
you,  pray,  make  yourself  at  home.  I  don't 
stand  on  ceremony.' 

'  No,  indeed,'  I  thought,  scanning  her  unpre- 
possessing person  with  a  disgust  I  could  not 
restrain. 

At  that  instant  another  door  flew  open 
quickly,  and  in  the  doorway  stood  the  girl  I 
had  seen  the  previous  evening  in  the  garden. 
She  lifted  her  hand,  and  a  mocking  smile 
gleamed  in  her  face. 

'  Here  is  my  daughter,'  observed  the  princess, 
indicating  her  with  her  elbow.  '  Zinotchka,  the 
son  of  our  neighbour,  Mr.  V.  WKat  is  your 
name,  allow  me  to  ask  ? ' 

'Vladimir,'  I  answered,  getting  up,  and 
stuttering  in  my  excitement. 

*  And  your  father's  name  ?  ' 

*  Petrovitch.' 

'Ah!  I  used  to  know  a  commissioner  of 
police  whose  name  was  Vladimir  Petrovitch 
too.  Vonifaty !  don't  look  for  my  keys  ;  the 
keys  are  in  my  pocket.' 

The  young  girl  was  still  looking  at  me  with 
the  same  smile,  faintly  fluttering  her  eyelids, 
and  putting  her  head  a  little  on  one  side. 
254 


FIRST   LOVE 

*  I  have  seen  Monsieur  Voldemar  before,'  she 
began.  (The  silvery  note  of  her  voice  ran 
through  me  with  a  sort  of  sweet  shiver.)  '  You 
will  let  me  call  you  so? ' 

'  Oh,  please,'  I  faltered. 

'  Where  was  that  ? '  asked  the  princess. 

The  young  princess  did  not  answer  her 
mother. 

'  Have  you  anything  to  do  just  now  ? '  she 
said,  not  taking  her  eyes  off  me. 

*  Oh,  no.' 

'  Would  you  like  to  help  me  wind  some  wool  ? 
Come  in  here,  to  me.' 

She  nodded  to  me  and  went  out  of  the 
drawing-room.     I  followed  her. 

In  the  room  we  went  into,  the  furniture  was 
a  little  better,  and  was  arranged  with  more 
taste.  Though,  indeed,  at  the  moment,  I  was 
scarcely  capable  of  noticing  anything ;  I 
moved  as  in  a  dream  and  felt  all  through  my 
being  a  sort  of  intense  blissfulness  that  verged 
on  imbecility. 

The  young  princess  sat  down,  took  out  a 
skein  of  red  wool  and,  motioning  me  to  a 
seat  opposite  her,  carefully  untied  the  skein 
and  laid  it  across  my  hands.  All  this  she  did 
in  silence  with  a  sort  of  droll  deliberation  and 
with  the  same  bright  sly  smile  on  her  slightly 
parted  lips.  She  began  to  wind  the  wool  on  a 
255 


FIRST  LOVE 

bent  card,  and  all  at  once  she  dazzled  me  with 
a  glance  so  brilliant  and  rapid,  that  I  could  not 
help  dropping  my  eyes.  When  her  eyes,  which 
were  generally  half  closed,  opened  to  their 
full  extent,  her  face  was  completely  trans- 
figured ;  it  was  as  though  it  were  flooded  with 
light 

'  What  did  you  think  of  me  yesterday,  M'sieu 
Voldemar  ? '  she  asked  after  a  brief  pause. 
'  You  thought  ill  of  me,  I  expect  ? ' 

'  I  .  .  .  princess  ...  I  thought  nothing  .  .  . 
how  can  I  ?  .  .  .'  I  answered  in  confusion. 

'  Listen,'  she  rejoined.  '  You  don't  know  me 
yet.  I  'm  a  very  strange  person  ;  I  like  always 
to  be  told  the  truth.  You,  I  have  just  heard, 
are  sixteen,  and  I  am  twenty-one :  you  see 
I  'm  a  great  deal  older  than  you,  and  so  you 
ought  always  to  tell  me  the  truth  .  .  .  and  to 
do  what  I  tell  you,'  she  added.  '  Look  at  me  : 
why  don't  you  look  at  me  ?  ' 

I  was  still  more  abashed  ;  however,  I  raised 
my  eyes  to  her.  She  smiled,  not  her  former 
smile,  but  a  smile  of  approbation.  '  Look  at 
me,'  she  said,  dropping  her  voice  caressingly : 
'  I  don't  dislike  that  ...  I  like  your  face ;  I 
have  a  presentiment  we  shall  be  friends.  But 
do  you  like  me?'  she  added  slyly. 

'  Princess  .  .  .'  I  was  beginning. 

'  In  the  first  place,  you  must  call  me  Zinaida 
256 


FIRST   LOVE 

Alexandrovna,  and  in  the  second  place  it 's  a 
bad  habit  for  children ' — (she  corrected  herself) 
*  for  young  people — not  to  say  straight  out 
what  they  feel.  That 's  all  very  well  for  grown- 
up people.     You  like  me,  don't  you  ? ' 

Though  I  was  greatly  delighted  that  she 
talked  so  freely  to  me,  still  I  was  a  little  hurt. 
I  wanted  to  show  her  that  she  had  not  a  mere 
boy  to  deal  with,  and  assuming  as  easy  and 
serious  an  air  as  I  could,  I  observed,  '  Certainly. 
I  like  you  very  much,  Zinaida  Alexandrovna ; 
I  have  no  wish  to  conceal  it.' 

She  shook  her  head  very  deliberately.  *  Have 
you  a  tutor  ? '  she  asked  suddenly. 

'  No ;  I  've  not  had  a  tutor  for  a  long,  long 
while.' 

I  told  a  lie ;  it  was  not  a  month  since  I  had 
parted  with  my  Frenchman. 

*  Oh  !  I  see  then — you  are  quite  grown-up.' 

She  tapped  me  lightly  on  the  fingers.  *  Hold 
your  hands  straight ! '  And  she  applied  herself 
busily  to  winding  the  ball. 

I  seized  the  opportunity  when  she  was  look- 
ing down  and  fell  to  watching  her,  at  first 
stealthily,  then  more  and  more  boldly.  Her 
face  struck  me  as  even  more  charm.ing  than  on 
the  previous  evening ;  everything  in  it  was  so 
delicate,  clever,  and  sweet.  She  was  sitting 
with  her  back  to  a  window  covered  with  a 
R  257 


FIRST   LOVE 

white  blind,  the  sunshine,  streaming  in  through 
the  blind,  shed  a  soft  light  over  her  fluffy 
golden  curls,  her  innocent  neck,  her  sloping 
shoulders,  and  tender  untroubled  bosom.  I 
gazed  at  her,  and  how  dear  and  near  she  was 
already  to  me !  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  known 
her  a  long  while  and  had  never  known  any- 
thing nor  lived  at  all  till  I  met  her.  .  .  .  She 
was  wearing  a  dark  and  rather  shabby  dress 
and  an  apron ;  I  would  gladly,  I  felt,  have 
kissed  every  fold  of  that  dress  and  apron. 
The  tips  of  her  little  shoes  peeped  out  from 
under  her  skirt ;  I  could  have  bowed  down  in 
adoration  to  those  shoes.  .  .  .  '  And  here  I  am 
sitting  before  her,'  I  thought ;  *  I  have  made 
acquaintance  with  her  .  .  .  what  happiness,  my 
God  ! '  I  could  hardly  keep  from  jumping  up 
from  my  chair  in  ecstasy,  but  I  only  swung  my 
legs  a  little,  like  a  small  child  who  has  been 
given  sweetmeats. 

I  was  as  happy  as  a  fish  in  water,  and  I 
could  have  stayed  in  that  room  for  ever,  have 
never  left  that  place. 

Her  eyelids  were  slowly  lifted,  and  once 
more  her  clear  eyes  shone  kindly  upon  me, 
and  again  she  smiled. 

'  How  you  look  at  me  ! '  she  said  slowly,  and 
she  held  up  a  threatening  finger. 

I  blushed  .  .  .  '  She  understands  it  all,  she 
258 


FIRST   LOVE 

sees  all,'  flashed  through  my  mind.     '  And  how 
could  she  fail  to  understand  and  see  it  all  ? ' 

All  at  once  there  was  a  sound  in  the  next 
room — the  clink  of  a  sabre. 

'  Zina  ! '  screamed  the  princess  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, '  Byelovzorov  has  brought  you  a 
kitten.'  -=-:=- 

*  A  kitten  ! '  cried  Zinaida,  and  getting  up 
from  her  chair  impetuously,  she  flung  the  ball 
of  worsted  on  my  knees  and  ran  away. 

I  too  got  up  and,  laying  the  skein  and  the 
ball  of  wool  on  the  window-sill,  I  went  into 
the  drawing-room  and  stood  still,  hesitating. 
In  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  tabby  kitten  was 
lying  with  outstretched  paws ;  Zinaida  was  on 
her  knees  before  it,  cautiously  lifting  up  its 
little  face.  Near  the  old  princess,  and  filling 
up  almost  the  whole  space  between  the  two 
windows,  was  a  flaxen  curly-headed  young 
man,  a  hussar,  with  a  rosy  face  and  prominent 
eyes. 

'  What  a  funny  little  thing ! '  Zinaida  was 
saying  ;  '  and  its  eyes  are  not  grey,  but  green, 
and  what  long  ears !  Thank  you,  V|ktor- 
Y^oritch  !  you  are  very  kind.' 

The  hussar,  in  whom  I  recognised  one  of  the 
young   men    I    had    seen   the   evening   before, 
smiled  and  bowed  with  a  clink  of  his  spurs  and 
a  jingle  of  the  chain  of  his  sabre. 
259 


FIRST  LOVE 

*You  were  pleased  to  say  yesterday  that 
you  wished  to  possess  a  tabby  kitten  with  long 
ears  ...  so  I  obtained  it.  Your  word  is  law.' 
And  he  bowed  again. 

The  kitten  gave  a  feeble  mew  and  began 
sniffing  the  ground. 

'  It 's  hungry ! '  cried  Zinaida.  *  Vonifaty, 
Sonia  !  bring  some  milk.' 
=^  A  maid,  in  an  old  yellow  gown  with  a  faded 
kerchief  at  her  neck,  came  in  with  a  saucer  of 
milk  and  set  it  before  the  kitten.  The  kitten 
started,  blinked,  and  began  lapping. 

'  What  a  pink  little  tongue  it  has  ! '  remarked 
Zinaida,  putting  her  head  almost  on  the  ground 
and  peeping  at  it  sideways  under  its  very  nose. 

The  kitten  having  had  enough  began  to  purr 
and  move  its  paws  affectedly.  Zinaida  got  up, 
and  turning  to  the  maid  said  carelessly,  '  Take 
it  away.' 

*  For  the  kitten — your  little  hand,'  said  the 
hussar,  with  a  simper  and  a  shrug  of  his 
strongly-built  frame,  which  was  tightly  buttoned 
up  in  a  new  uniform. 

*  Both,'  replied  Zinaida,  and  she  held  out  her 
hands  to  him.  While  he  was  kissing  them,  she 
looked  at  me  over  his  shoulder. 

I  stood  stockstill  in  the  same  place  and  did 
not  know  whether  to  laugh,  to  say  something, 
or  to  be  silent.     Suddenly  through  the   open 
260 


FIRST  LOVE 

door  into  the  passage  I  caught  sight  of  our 
footman,  Fyodor.  He  was  making  signs  to 
me.     Mechanically  I  went  out  to  him. 

*  What  do  you  want  ? '  I  asked. 

'Your  mamma  has  sent  for  you,'  he  said  in 
a  whisper.  '  She  is  angry  that  you  have  not 
come  back  with  the  answer.' 

'  Why,  have  I  been  here  long  ? ' 

'  Over  an  hour.' 

*  Over  an  hour ! '  I  repeated  unconsciously, 
and  going  back  to  the  drawing-room  I  began 
to  make  bows  and  scrape  with  my  heels. 

'  Where  are  you  off  to  ? '  the  young  princess 
asked,  glancing  at  me  from  behind  the  hussar. 

'  I  must  go  home.  So  I  am  to  say,'  I  added, 
addressing  the  old  lady, '  that  you  will  come  to 
us  about  two.' 

*  Do  you  say  so,  my  good  sir.' 

The  princess  hurriedly  pulled  out  her  snuff- 
box and  took  snuff  so  loudly  that  I  positively 
jumped.  'Do  you  say  so,'  she  repeated,  blink- 
ing tearfully  and  sneezing. 

I  bowed  once  more,  turned,  and  went  out  of 
the  room  with  that  sensation  of  awkwardness  in 
my  spine  which  a  very  young  man  feels  when 
he  knows  he  is  being  looked  at  from  behind. 

*  Mind  you  come  and  see  us  again,  M'sieu 
Voldemar,'  Zinaida  called,  and  she  laughed 
again. 

261 


FIRST   LOVE 

*  Why  is  it  she 's  always  laughing  ?  '  I  thought, 
as  I  went  back  home  escorted  by  Fyodor,  who 
said  nothing  to  me,  but  walked  behind  me  with 
an  air  of  disapprobation.  My  mother  scolded 
me  and  wondered  what  ever  I  could  have  been 
doing  so  long  at  the  princess's.  I  made  her 
no  reply  and  went  off  to  my  own  room.  I  felt 
suddenly  very  sad.  ...  I  tried  hard  not  to 
cry.  ...  I  was  jealous  of  the  hussar. 


The  princess  called  on  my  mother  as  she  had 
promised  and  made  a  disagreeable  impression 
on  her.  I  was  not  present  at  their  interview, 
but  at  table  my  mother  told  my  father  that  this 
Prince  Zasyekin  struck  her  as  a  fenivie  tres 
vulgaire,  that  she  had  quite  worn  her  out  beg- 
ging her  to  interest  Prince  Sergei  in  their  behalf, 
that  she  seemed  to  have  no  end  of  lawsuits  and 
affairs  on  hand — de  vilaincs  affaires  cTafgent — 
and  must  be  a  very  troublesome  and  litigious 
person.  My  mother  added,  however,  that  she 
had  asked  her  and  her  daughter  to  dinner  the 
next  day  (hearing  the  word  'daughter'  I  buried 
my  nose  in  my  plate),  for  after  all  she  was  a 
neighbour  and  a  person  of  title.  Upon  this 
my  father  informed  my  mother  that  he  re- 
262 


FIRST   LOVE 

membered  now  who  this  lady  was  ;  that  he 
had  in  his  youth  known  the  deceased  Prince 
Zasyekin,  a  very  well-bred,  but  frivolous  and 
absurd  person  ;  that  he  had  been  nicknamed 
in  society  ^ le  Parisien'^  from  having  lived  a 
long  while  in  Paris ;  that  he  had  been  very 
rich,  but  had  gambled  away  all  his  property ; 
and  for  some  unknown  reason,  probably  for 
money,  though  indeed  he  might  have  chosen 
better,  if  so,  my  father  added  with  a  cold  smile, 
he  had  married  the  daughter  of  an  agent,  and 
after  his  marriage  had  entered  upon  specula- 
tions and  ruined  himself  utterly. 

'  If  only  she  doesn't  try  to  borrow  money,' 
observed  my  mother. 

'That's  exceedingly  possible,'  my  father 
responded  tranquilly.  '  Does  she  speak 
French? ' 

'Very  badly.' 

*  H'm.  It 's  of  no  consequence  anyway.  I 
think  you  said  you  had  asked  the  daughter 
too ;  some  one  was  telling  me  she  was  a  very 
charming  and  cultivated  girl.' 

'  Ah  !     Then  she  can't  take  after  her  mother.' 

*  Nor  her  father  either,'  rejoined  my  father. 
'  He  was  cultivated  indeed,  but  a  fool.' 

My  mother  sighed  and   sank  into  thought. 
My  father  said  no  more.     I  felt  very  uncom- 
fortable during  this  conversation. 
263 


FIRST   LOVE 

After  dinner  I  went  into  the  garden,  but 
without  my  gun.  I  swore  to  myself  that  I 
would  not  go  near  the  Zasyekins'  garden, 
but  an  irresistible  force  drew  me  thither,  and 
not  in  vain.  I  had  hardly  reached  the  fence 
when  I  caught  sight  of  Zinaida.  This  time 
she  was  alone.  She  held  a  book  in  her  hands, 
and  was  coming  slowly  along  the  path.  She 
did  not  notice  me. 

I  almost  let  her  pass  by ;  but  all  at  once  I 
changed  my  mind  and  coughed. 

She  turned  round,  but  did  not  stop,  pushed 
back  with  one  hand  the  broad  blue  ribbon  of 
her  round  straw  hat,  looked  at  me,  smiled 
slowly,  and  again  bent  her  eyes  on  the  book. 

I  took  off  my  cap,  and  after  hesitating  a 
moment,  walked  away  with  a  heavy  heart. 
*  Que  suis-je  poicr  elk  ? '  I  thought  (God  knows 
why)  in  French. 

Familiar  footsteps  sounded  behind  me ;  I 
looked  round,  my  father  came  up  to  me  with 
his  light,  rapid  walk. 

*  Is  that  the  young  princess  ?  '  he  asked  me. 
'  Yes.' 

'  Why,  do  you  know  her  ?  '   ^ 

*  I  saw  her  this  morning  at  the  princess's.' 
My  father  stopped,  and,  turning  sharply  on 

his  heel,  went  back.     When  he  was  on  a  level 

with   Zinaida,  he  made  her  a  courteous   bow. 

264 


FIRST   LOVE 

She,  too,  bowed  to  him,  with  some  astonishment 
on  her  face,  and  dropped  her  book.  I  saw  how 
she  looked  after  him.  My  father  was  always 
irreproachably  dressed,  simple  and  in  a  style 
of  his  own  ;  but  his  figure  had  never  struck 
me  as  more  graceful,  never  had  his  grey  hat 
sat  more  becomingly  on  his  curls,  which  were 
scarcely  perceptibly  thinner  than  they  had  once 
been. 

I  bent  my  steps  toward  Zinaida,  but  she  did 
not  even  glance  at  me  ;  she  picked  up  her  book 
again  and  went  away. 


VI 


The  whole  evening  and  the  following  day  I 
spent  in  a  sort  of  dejected  apathy.  I  remem- 
ber I  tried  to  work  and  took  up  Keidanov, 
but  the  boldly  printed  lines  and  pages  of  the 
famous  text-book  passed  before  my  eyes  in 
vain.  I  read  ten  times  over  the  words : 
'  Julius  Caesar  was  distinguished  by  warlike 
courage.'  I  did  not  understand  anything  and 
threw  the  book,  aside.  Before  dinner-time  I 
pomaded  myself  once  more,  and  once  more  put 
on  my  tail-coat  and  necktie. 

'What's  that  for?'  my  mother  demanded. 
*  You 're  not  a  student  yet,  and    God    knows 
265 


FIRST   LOVE 

whether  you'll  get  through  the  examination. 
And  you  Ve  not  long  had  a  new  jacket !  You 
can't  throw  it  away  ! ' 

'  There  will  be  visitors/  I  murmured  almost 
in  despair. 

'  What  nonsense  !  fine  visitors  indeed  ! ' 
I  had  to  submit.  I  changed  my  tail-coat  for 
my  jacket,  but  I  did  not  take  off  the  necktie. 
The  princess  and  her  daughter  made  their 
appearance  half  an  hour  before  dinner-time ; 
the  old  lady  had  put  on,  in  addition  to  the 
green  dress  with  which  I  was  already  ac- 
quainted, a  yellow  shawl,  and  an  old-fashioned 
cap  adorned  with  flame-coloured  ribbons.  She 
began  talking  at  once  about  her  money  diffi- 
culties, sighing,  complaining  of  her  poverty, 
and  imploring  assistance,  but  she  made  herself 
at  home ;  she  took  snuff  as  noisily,  and 
fidgeted  and  lolled  about  in  her  chair  as 
freely  as  ever.  It  never  seemed  to  have 
struck  her  that  she  was  a  princess.  Zinaida 
on  the  other  hand  was  rigid,  almost  haughty 
in  her  demeanour,  every  inch  a  princess. 
There  was  a  cold  immobility  and  dignity  in  her 
face.  I  should  not  have  recognised  it ;  I  should 
not  have  known  her  smiles,  her  glances,  though 
I  thought  her  exquisite  in  this  new  aspect  too. 
She  wore  a  light  barege  dress  with  pale  blue 
flowers  on  it ;  her  hair  fell  in  long  curls  down 
266 


FIRST   LOVE 

her  cheek  in  the  English  fashion  ;  this  style 
went  well  with  the  cold  expression  of  her 
face.  My  father  sat  beside  her  during  dinner, 
and  entertained  his  neighbour  with  the  finished 
and  serene  courtesy  peculiar  to  him.  He 
glanced  at  her  from  time  to  time,  and  she 
glanced  at  him,  but  so  strangely,  almost  with 
hostility.  Their  conversation  was  carried  on 
in  French  ;  I  was  surprised,  I  remember,  at  the 
purity  of  Zinaida's  accent.  The  princess,  while 
we  were  at  table,  as  before  made  no  ceremony ; 
she  ate  a  great  deal,  and  praised  the  dishes. 
My  mother  was  obviously  bored  by  her,  and 
answered  her  with  a  sort  of  weary  indifference  ; 
my  father  faintly  frowned  now  and  then.  My 
mother  did  not  like  Zinaida  either.  '  A  con- 
ceited minx,'  she  said  next  day.  '  And  fancy, 
what  she  has  to  be  conceited  about,  avec  sa 
mine  de  grisette  ! ' 

'  It 's  clear  you  have  never  seen  any  grisettes,' 
my  father  observed  to  her. 

*  Thank  God,  I  haven't ! ' 

'Thank  God,  to  be  sure  .  .  .  only  how  can 
you  form  an  opinion  of  them,  then  ? ' 

To  me  Zinaida  had  paid  no  attention  what- 
ever. Soon  after  dinner  the  princess  got  up  to 
go. 

'I    shall    rely  on    your   kind    offices,   Maria] 
Nikolaevna  and   Piotr  Vassilitch,'  she  said  inj4^ 
267  ' 


FIRST   LOVE 

a  doleful  sing-song  to  my  mother  and  father. 
*  I  Ve  no  help  for  it !  There  were  days,  but 
they  are  over.  Here  I  am,  an  excellency,  and 
a  poor  honour  it  is  with  nothing  to  eat ! ' 

My  father  made  her  a  respectful  bow  and 
escorted  her  to  the  door  of  the  hall.  I  was 
standing  there  in  my  short  jacket,  staring  at 
the  floor,  like  a  man  under  sentence  of  death. 
Zinaida's  treatment  of  me  had  crushed  me 
utterly.  What  was  my  astonishment,  when, 
as  she  passed  me,  she  whispered  quickly  with 
her  former  kind  expression  in  her  eyes  :  '  Come 
to  see  us  at  eight,  do  you  hear,  be  sure.  .  .  .'  I 
simply  threw  up  my  hands,  but  already  she  was 
gone,  flinging  a  white  scarf  over  her  head. 


VII 

At  eight  o'clock  precisely,  in  my  tail-coat  and 
with  my  hair  brushed  up  into  a  tuft  on  my 
head,  I  entered  the  passage  of  the  lodge,  where 
the  princess  lived.  The  old  servant  looked 
crossly  at  me  and  got  up  unwillingly  from 
his  bench.  There  was  a  sound  of  merry  voices 
in  the  drawing-room.  I  opened  the  door  and 
fell  back  in  amazement.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  was  the  young  princess,  standing  on  a 
chair,  holding  a  man's  hat  in  front  of  her  ; 
268 


FIRST   LOVE 

round  the  chair  crowded  some  half  a  dozen 
men.  They  were  trying  to  put  their  hands 
into  the  hat,  while  she  held  it  above  their 
heads,  shaking  it  violently.  On  seeing  me, 
she  cried,  '  Stay,  stay,  another  guest,  he  must 
have  a  ticket  too,'  and  leaping  lightly  down 
from  the  chair  she  took  me  by  the  cuff  of  my 
coat.  '  Come  along,'  she  said,  *  why  are  you 
standing  still?  Messieurs,  let  me  make  you 
acquainted  :  this  is  M'sieu  Voldemar,  the  son 
of  our  neighbour.  And  this,'  she  went  on, 
addressing  me,  and  indicating  her  guests  in 
turn,  '  Count  Malevsky,  Doctor  Lushin,  Mei-  \ 
danov  the  poet,  the  retired  captain  Nirmatsky,  ^ 
and  Byelovzorov  the  hussar,  whom  you  've  seen 
already.     I  hope  you  will  be  good  friends.' 

I  was  so  confused  that  I  did  not  even  bow 
to  any  one ;  in  Doctor  Lushin  I  recognised  the 
dark  man  who  had  so  mercilessly  put  me  to 
shame  in  the  garden  ;  the  others  were  un- 
known to  me. 

'  Count ! '  continued  Zinaida,  *  write  M'sieu 
Voldemar  a  ticket.' 

'That's  not  fair,'  was  objected  in  a  slight 
Polish  accent  by  the  count,  a  very  handsome  and 
fashionably  dressed  brunette,  with  expressive 
brown  eyes,  a  thin  little  white  nose,  and  delicate 
little  moustaches  over  a  tiny  mouth.  '  This 
gentleman  has  not  been  playing  forfeits  with  us.' 
269 


FIRST   LOVE 

*  It's  unfair,' repeated  in  chorus  Byelovzorov 
and  the  gentleman  described  as  a  retired 
captain,  a  man  of  forty,  pock-marked  to  a 
hideous  degree,  curly-headed  as  a  negro,  round- 
shouldered,  bandy-legged,  and  dressed  in  a 
military  coat  without  epaulets,  worn  un- 
buttoned. 

*  Write  him  a  ticket,  I  tell  you,'  repeated 
the  young  princess.  '  What 's  this  mutiny  ? 
M'sieu  Voldemar  is  with  us  for  the  first  time, 
and  there  are  no  rules  for  him  yet.  It 's  no 
use  grumbling — write  it,  I  wish  it,' 

The  count  shrugged  his  shoulders  but  bowed 
submissively,  took  the  pen  in  his  white,  ring- 
bedecked  fingers,  tore  off  a  scrap  of  paper  and 
wrote  on  it. 

'  At  least  let  us  explain  to  Mr.  Voldemar 
what  we  are  about,'  Lushin  began  in  a  sarcastic 
voice,  *  or  else  he  will  be  quite  lost.  Do  you 
see,  young  man,  we  are  playing  forfeits  ?  the 
princess  has  to  pay  a  forfeit,  and  the  one  who 
draws  the  lucky  lot  is  to  have  the  privilege  of 
kissing  her  hand.  Do  you  understand  what 
I  've  told  you  ?  ' 

I  simply  stared  at  him,  and  continued  to 
stand  still  in  bewilderment,  while  the  young 
princess  jumped  up  on  the  chair  again,  and 
again  began  waving  the  hat.  They  all  stretched 
up  to  her,  and  I  went  after  the  rest. 
270 


FIRST  LOVE 

*  Meidanov,'  said  the  princess  to  a  tall  young 
man  with  a  thin  face,  little  dim-sighted  eyes, 
and  exceedingly  long  black  hair,  'you  as  a 
poet  ought  to  be  magnanimous,  and  give  up 
your  number  to  M'sieu  Voldemar  so  that  he 
may  have  two  chances  instead  of  one.' 

But  Meidanov  shook  his  head  in  refusal,  and 
tossed  his  hair.  After  all  the  others  I  put  my 
hand  into  the  hat,  and  unfolded  my  lot.  .  .  . 
Heavens !  what  was  my  condition  when  I  saw 
on  it  the  word,  Kiss ! 

*  Kiss  ! '  I  could  not  help  crying  aloud. 

'  Bravo !  he  has  won  it,'  the  princess  said 
quickly.  '  How  glad  I  am  ! '  She  came  down 
from  the  chair  and  gave  me  such  a  bright 
sweet  look,  that  my  heart  bounded.  '  Are  you 
glad  ? '  she  asked  me. 

'  Me  ? '  .  .  .  I  faltered. 

*  Sell  me  your  lot,'  Byelovzorov  growled 
suddenly  just  in  my  ear.  *  I  '11  give  you  a 
hundred  roubles.' 

I  answered  the  hussar  with  such  an  indignant 
look,  that  Zinaida  clapped  her  hands,  while 
Lushin  cried,  '  He's  a  fine  fellow ! ' 

'  But,  as  master  of  the  ceremonies,'  he  went 
on,  '  it's  my  duty  to  see  that  all  the  rules  are 
kept.  M'sieu  Voldemar,  go  down  on  one  knee. 
That  is  our  regulation.' 

Zinaida  stood  in  front  of  me,  her  head  a 
271 


FIRST   LOVE 

little  on  one  side  as  though  to  get  a  better  look 
at  me ;  she  held  out  her  hand  to  me  with 
dignity.  A  mist  passed  before  my  eyes ;  I 
meant  to  drop  on  one  knee,  sank  on  both,  and 
pressed  my  lips  to  Zinaida's  fingers  so  awk- 
wardly that  I  scratched  myself  a  little  with  the 
tip  of  her  nail. 

*  Well  done ! '  cried  Lushin,  and  helped  me 
to  get  up. 

The  game  of  forfeits  went  on.  Zinaida  sat 
me  down  beside  her.  She  invented  all  sorts  of 
extraordinary  forfeits  !  She  had  among  other 
things  to  represent  a  '  statue,'  and  she  chose 
as  a  pedestal  the  hideous  Nirmatsky,  told  him 
to  bow  down  in  an  arch,  and  bend  his  head 
down  on  his  breast.  The  laughter  never 
paused  for  an  instant.  For  me,  a  boy  constantly 
brought  up  in  the  seclusion  of  a  dignified 
manor-house,  all  this  noise  and  uproar,  this 
unceremonious,  almost  riotous  gaiety,  these 
relations  with  unknown  persons,  were  simply 
intoxicating.  My  head  went  round,  as  though 
from  wine.  I  began  laughing  and  talking 
louder  than  the  others,  so  much  so  that  the 
old  princess,  who  was  sitting  in  the  next  room 
with  some  sort  of  clerk  from  the  Tversky  gate, 
invited  by  her  for  consultation  on  business, 
positively  came  in  to  look  at  me.  But  I  felt 
so  happy  that  I  did  not  mind  anything,  I 
272 


FIRST   LOVE 

didn't  care  a  straw  for  any  one's  jeers,  or  dubious 
looks.  Zinaida  continued  to  show  me  a  pre- 
ference, and  kept  me  at  her  side.  In  one 
forfeit,  I  had  to  sit  by  her,  both  hidden  under 
one  silk  handkerchief:  I  was  to  tell  her  my 
secret.  I  remember  our  two  heads  being  all 
at  once  in  a  warm,  half-transparent,  fragrant 
darkness,  the  soft,  close  brightness  of  her  eyes 
in  the  dark,  and  the  burning  breath  from  her 
parted  lips,  and  the  gleam  of  her  teeth  and 
the  ends  of  her  hair  tickling  me  and  setting 
me  on  fire.  I  was  silent.  She  smiled  slyly  and 
mysteriously,  and  at  last  whispered  to  me, 
'  Well,  what  is  it  ? '  but  I  merely  blushed  and 
laughed,  and  turned  away,  catching  my  breath. 
We  got  tired  of  forfeits — we  began  to  play  a 
game  with  a  string.  My  God  !  what  were  my 
transports  when,  for  not  paying  attention,  I  got 
a  sharp  and  vigorous  slap  on  my  fingers  from 
her,  and  how  I  tried  afterwards  to  pretend  that 
I  was  absent-minded,  and  she  teased  me,  and 
would  not  touch  the  hands  I  held  out  to  her ! 
What  didn't  we  do  that  evening  !  We  played 
the  piano,  and  sang  and  danced  and  acted  a 
gypsy  encampment.  Nirmatsky  was  dressed  up 
as  a  bear,  and  made  to  drink  salt  water.  Count 
Malevsky  showed  us  several  sorts  of  card 
tricks,  and  finished,  after  shuffling  the  cards, 
by  dealing  himself  all  the  trumps  at  whist,  on 
s  273 


FIRST   LOVE 

which  Lushin  'had  the  honour  of  congratulating 
him.'  Meidanov  recited  portions  from  his  poem 
'  The  Manslayer '  (romanticism  was  at  its  height 
at  this  period),  which  he  intended  to  bring  out 
in  a  black  cover  with  the  title  in  blood-red 
letters  ;  they  stole  the  clerk's  cap  off  his  knee, 
and  made  him  dance  a  Cossack  dance  by  way 
of  ransom  for  it ;  they  dressed  up  old  -Voni- 
faty  in  a  woman's  cap,  and  the  young  princess 
put  on  a  man's  hat.  ...  I  could  not  enumerate 
all  we  did.  Only  Byelovzorov  kept  more  and 
more  in  the  background,  scowling  and  angry. 
.  .  .  Sometimes  his  eyes  looked  bloodshot,  he 
flushed  all  over,  and  it  seemed  every  minute  as 
though  he  would  rush  out  upon  us  all  and 
scatter  us  like  shavings  in  all  directions  ;  but 
the  young  princess  would  glance  at  him,- and 
shake  her  finger  at  him,  and  he  would  retire 
into  his  corner  again. 

We  were  quite  worn  out  at  last.  Even  the 
old  princess,  though  she  was  ready  for  any- 
thing, as  she  expressed  it,  and  no  noise  wearied 
her,  felt  tired  at  last,  and  longed  for  peace  and 
quiet.  At  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  supper  was 
served,  consisting  of  a  piece  of  stale  dry 
cheese,  and  some  cold  turnovers  of  minced 
ham,  which  seemed  to  me  more  delicious  than 
any  pastry  I  had  ever  tasted  ;  there  was  only 
one  bottle  of  wine,  and  that  was  a  strange 
274 


FIRST   LOVE 

one ;  a  dark-coloured  bottle  with  a  wide  neck, 
and  the  wine  in  it  was  of  a  pink  hue  ;  no 
one  drank  it,  however.  Tired  out  and  faint 
with  happiness,  I  left  the  lodge ;  at  parting 
Zinaida  pressed  my  hand  warmly,  and  again 
smiled  mysteriously. 

The  night  air  was  heavy  and  damp  in  my 
heated  face  ;  a  storm  seemed  to  be  gathering  ; 
black  stormclouds  grew  and  crept  across  the 
sky,  their  smoky  outlines  visibly  changing.  A 
gust  of  wind  shivered  restlessly  in  the  dark 
trees,  and  somewhere,  far  away  on  the  horizon, 
muffled  thunder  angrily  muttered  as  it  were  to 
itself. 

I  made  my  way  up  to  my  room  by  the  back 
stairs.  My  old  man-nurse  was  asleep  on  the 
floor,  and  I  had  to  step  over  him  ;  he  waked 
up,  saw  me,  and  told  me  that  my  mother  had 
again  been  very  angry  with  me,  and  had  wished 
to  send  after  me  again,  but  that  my  father  had 
prevented  her.  (I  had  never  gone  to  bed  with- 
out saying  good-night  to  my  mother,  and  ask- 
ing her  blessing.  There  was  no  help  for  it 
now !) 

I  told  my  man  that  I  would  undress  and  go 
to  bed  by  myself,  and  I  put  out  the  candle. 
But  I  did  not  undress,  and  did  not  go  to  bed. 

I  sat  down  on  a  chair,  and  sat  a  long  while, 
as  though  spell-bound.  What  I  was  feeling  was 
275 


FIRST  LOVE 

SO  new  and  so  sweet.  ...  I  sat  still,  hardly- 
looking  round  and  not  moving,  drew  slow 
breaths,  and  only  from  time  to  time  laughed 
silently  at  some  recollection,  or  turned  cold 
within  at  the  thought  that  I  was  in  love,  that 
this  was  she,  that  this  was  love.  Zinaida's  face 
floated  slowly  before  me  in  the  darkness — 
floated,  and  did  not  float  away ;  her  lips  still 
wore  the  same  enigmatic  smile,  her  eyes  watched 
me,  a  little  from  one  side,  with  a  questioning, 
dreamy,  tender  look  ...  as  at  the  instant  of 
parting  from  her.  At  last  I  got  up,  walked  on 
tiptoe  to  my  bed,  and  without  undressing,  laid 
my  head  carefully  on  the  pillow,  as  though  I 
were  afraid  by  an  abrupt  movement  to  disturb 
what  filled  my  soul.  ...  I  lay  down,  but  did 
not  even  close  my  eyes.  Soon  I  noticed  that 
faint  glimmers  of  light  of  some  sort  were  thrown 
continually  into  the  room.  ...  I  sat  up  and 
looked  at  the  window.  The  window-frame 
could  be  clearly  distinguished  from  the 
mysteriously  and  dimly-lighted  panes.  It  is 
a  storm,  I  thought ;  and  a  storm  it  really  was, 
but  it  was  raging  so  very  far  away  that  the 
thunder  could  not  be  heard  ;  only  blurred,  long, 
as  it  were  branching,  gleams  of  lightning  flashed 
continually  over  the  sky  ;  it  was  not  flashing, 
though,  so  much  as  quivering  and  twitching  like 
the  wing  of  a  dying  bird.  I  got  up,  went  to  the 
276 


FIRST   LOVE 

window,  and  stood  there  till  morning.  .  .  .  The 
lightning  never  ceased  for  an  instant  ;  it  was 
what  is  called  among  the  peasants  a  sparrow 
night.  I  gazed  at  the  dumb  sandy  plain,  at  the 
dark  mass  of  the  Neskutchny  gardens,  at  the 
yellowish  facades  of  the  distant  buildings, 
which  seemed  to  quiver  too  at  each  faint  flash. 
...  I  gazed,  and  could  not  turn  away ;  these 
silent  lightning  flashes,  these  gleams  seemed  in 
response  to  the  secret  silent  fires  which  were 
aglow  within  me.  Morning  began  to  dawn  ; 
the  sky  was  flushed  in  patches  of  crimson.  As 
the  sun  came  nearer,  the  lightning  grew 
gradually  paler,  and  ceased ;  the  quivering 
gleams  were  fewer  and  fewer,  and  vanished  at 
last,  drowned  in  the  sobering  positive  light  of 
the  coming  day.  .  .  . 

And  my  lightning  flashes  vanished  too.  I 
felt  great  weariness  and  peace  .  .  .  but  Zinaida's 
image  still -floated  triumphant  over  my  soul. 
But  it  too,  this  image,  seemed  more  tranquil : 
like  a  swan  rising  out  of  the  reeds  of  a  bog,  it 
stood  out  from  the  other  unbeautiful  figures 
surrounding  it,  and  as  I  fell  asleep,  I  flung  myself 
before  it  in  farewell,  trusting  adoration.  .  .   . 

Oh,  sweet  emotions,  gentle  harmony,  good- 
ness and  peace  of  the  softened  heart,  melting 
bliss  of  the  first  raptures  of  love,  where  are 
they,  where  are  they  ? 

277 


FIRST   LOVE 


VIII 


The  next  morning,  when  I  came  down  to  tea, 
my  mother  scolded  me — less  severely,  however, 
than  I  had  expected — and  made  me  tell  her 
how  I  had  spent  the  previous  evening.  I 
answered  her  in  few  words,  omitting  many 
details,  and  trying  to  give  the  most  innocent 
air  to  everything. 

'  Anyway,  they  're  people  who  're  not  coimne 
il faut'^  my  mother  commented,  '  and  you  've 
no  business  to  be  hanging  about  there,  instead 
of  preparing  yourself  for  the  examination,  and 
doing  your  work.' 

As  I  was  well  aware  that  my  mother's  anxiety 
about  my  studies  was  confined  to  these  few 
words,  I  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  make  any 
rejoinder ;  but  after  morning  tea  was  over,  my 
father  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  turning  into 
the  garden  with  me,  forced  me  to  tell  him  all  I 
had  seen  at  the  Zasyekins'. 

A  curious  influence  my  father  had  over  me, 
and  curious  were  the  relations  existing  between 
us.  He  took  hardly  any  interest  in  my  educa- 
tion, but  he  never  hurt  my  feelings  ;  he  respected 
my  freedom,  he  treated  me — if  I  may  so  express 
it — with  courtesy,  .  .  .  only  he  never  let  me  be 
really  close  to  him.  I  loved  him,  I  admired 
278 


FIRST   LOVE 

him,  he  was  my  ideal  of  a  man — and  Heavens  ! 
how  passionately  devoted  I  should  have  been 
to  him,  if  I  had  not  been  continually  conscious 
of  his  holding  me  off!  But  when  he  liked,  he 
could  almost  instantaneously,  by  a  single  word, 
a  single  gesture,  call  forth  an  unbounded  con- 
fidence in  him.  My  soul  expanded,  I  chattered 
away  to  him,  as  to  a  wise  friend,  a  kindly 
teacher  .  .  .  then  he  as  suddenly  got  rid  of  me, 
and  again  he  was  keeping  me  off,  gently  and 
affectionately,  but  still  he  kept  me  off. 

Sometimes  he  was  in  high  spirits,  and  then 
he  was  ready  to  romp  and  frolic  with  me,  like 
a  boy  (he  was  fond  of  vigorous  physical  exercise 
of  every  sort)  ;  once — it  never  happened  a 
second  time  ! — he  caressed  me  with  such  tender- 
ness that  I  almost  shed  tears.  .  .  .  But  high 
spirits  and  tenderness  alike  vanished  com- 
pletely, and  what  had  passed  between  us,  gave 
me  nothing  to  build  on  for  the  future — it  was 
as  though  I  had  dreamed  it  all.  Sometimes  I 
would  scrutinise  his  clever  handsome  bright 
face  .  .  .  my  heart  would  throb,  and  my  whole 
being  yearn  to  him  ...  he  would  seem  to  feel 
what  was  going  on  w^ithin  me,  would  give  me  a 
passing  pat  on  the  cheek,  and  go  away,  or  take 
up  some  work,  or  suddenly  freeze  all  over  as 
only  he  knew  how  to  freeze,  and  I  shrank  into 
myself  at  once,  and  turned  cold  too.  His  rare 
279 


FIRST  LOVE 

fits  of  friendliness  to  me  were  never  called  forth 
by  my  silent,  but  intelligible  entreaties :  they 
always  occurred  unexpectedly.  Thinking  over 
my  father's  character  later,  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  had  no  thoughts  to  spare  for 
me  and  for  family  life ;  his  heart  was  in  other 
things,  and  found  complete  satisfaction  else- 
where. '  Take  for  yourself  what  you  can,  and 
don't  be  ruled  by  others ;  to  L^luiig  to  oneself 
— the  whole  savour  of  life  lies  in  that,'  he  said 
to  me  one  day.  Another  time,  I,  as  a  young 
democrat,  fell  to  airing  my  views  on  liberty  (he 
was  '  kind,'  as  I  used  to  call  it,  that  day ;  and 
at  such  times  I  could  talk  to  him  as  1  liked). 
'  Liberty,'  he  repeated  ;  *  and  do  you  know  what 
can  give  a  man  liberty  ? ' 

'  What  ? ' 

'  Will,  his  own  will,  and  it  gives  power,  which 
is  better  than  liberty.  Know  how  to  will,  and 
you  will  be  free,  and  will  lead.' 

My  father,  before  all,  and  above  all,  desired  to 
live,  and  lived.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  had  a  presenti- 
ment that  he  would  not  have  long  to  enjoy  the 
*  savour '  of  life  :  he  died  at  forty-two. 

I  described  my  evening  at  the  Zasyckins' 
minutely  to  my  father.  Half  attentively,  half 
carelessly,  he  listened  to  mc,  sitting  on  a  garden 
seat,  drawing  in  the  sand  with  his  cane.  Now 
and  then  he  laughed,  shot  bright,  droll  glances 
280 


FIRST   LOVE 

at  me,  and  spurred  me  on  with  short  questions 
and  assents.  At  first  I  could  not  bring  myself 
even  to  utter  the  name  of  Zinaida,  but  I  could 
not  restrain  myself  long,  and  began  singing 
her  praises.  My  father  still  laughed ;  then 
he  grew  thoughtful,  stretched,  and  got  up. 

I  remembered  that  as  he  came  out  of  the 
house  he  had  ordered  his  horse  to  be  saddled. 
He  was  a  splendid  horseman,  and,  long  before 
Rarey,  had  the  secret  of  breaking  in  the  most 
vicious  horses. 

'Shall  I  come  with  you,  father?'  I  asked. 

*  No,'  he  answered,  and  his  face  resumed  its 
ordinary  expression  of  friendly  indifference. 
'  Go  alone,  if  you  like ;  and  tell  the  coachman 
I  'm  not  going.' 

He  turned  his  back  on  me  and  walked 
rapidly  away.  I  looked  after  him ;  he  dis- 
appeared through  the  gates.  I  saw  his  hat 
moving  along  beside  the  fence ;  he  went  into 
the  Zasyekins'. 

He  stayed  there  not  more  than  an  hour,  but 
then  departed  at  once  for  the  town,  and  did 
not  return  home  till  evening. 

After  dinner  I  went  myself  to  the  Zasyekins'. 
In  the  drawing-room  I  found  only  the  old 
princess.  On  seeing  me  she  scratched  her  head 
under  her  cap  with  a  knitting-needle,  and  sud- 
denly asked  me,  could  I  copy  a  petition  for  her. 
281 


FIRST   LOVE 

'With  pleasure/  I  replied,  sitting  down  on 
the  edge  of  a  chair. 

'Only  mind  and  make  the  letters  bigger/ 
observed  the  princess,  handing  me  a  dirty  sheet 
of  paper ;  '  and  couldn't  you  do  it  to-day,  my 
good  sir  ? ' 

*  Certainly,  I  will  copy  it  to-day.' 

The  door  of  the  next  room  was  just  opened, 
and  in  the  crack  I  saw  the  face  of  Zinaida,  pale 
and  pensive,  her  hair  flung  carelessly  back  ; 
she  stared  at  me  with  big  chilly  eyes,  and  softly 
closed  the  door. 

*  Zina,  Zina  ! '  called  the  old  lady.  Zinaida 
made  no  response.  I  took  home  the  old  lady's 
petition  and  spent  the  whole  evening  over  it. 


IX 


My  '  passion '  dated  from  that  day.  I  felt  at 
that  time,  I  recollect,  something  like  what  a 
man  must  feel  on  entering  the  service :  I  had 
ceased  now  to  be  simply  a  young  boy  ;  I  was 
in  love.  I  have  said  that  my  passion  dated 
from  that  day ;  I  might  have  added  that  my 
sufferings  too  dated  from  the  same  day.  Away 
from  Zinaida  I  pined ;  nothing  was  to  my 
mind ;  everything  went  wrong  with  me ;  I 
282 


FIRST  LOVE 

spent  whole  days  thinking  intensely  about  her 
...  I  pined  when  away,  .  .  .  but  in  her  presence 
I  was  no  better  off.  I  was  jealous  ;  I  was  con- 
scious of  my  insignificance ;  I  was  stupidly 
sulky  or  stupidly  abject,  and,  all  the  same,  an 
invincible  force  drew  me  to  her,  and  I  could 
not  help  a  shudder  of  delight  whenever  I 
stepped  through  the  doorway  of  her  room. 
Zinaida  guessed  at  once  that  I  was  in  love 
with  her,  and  indeed  I  never  even  thought  of 
concealing  it.  She  amused  herself  with  my 
passion,  made  a  fool  of  me,  petted  and  tor- 
mented me.  There  is  a  sweetness  in  being  the 
sole  source,  the  autocratic  and  irresponsible 
cause  of  the  greatest  joy  and  profoundest  pain 
to  another,  and  I  was  like  wax  in  Zinaida's 
hands ;  though,  indeed,  I  was  not  the  only  one 
in  love  with  her.  All  the  men  who  visited  the 
house  were  crazy  over  her,  and  she  kept  them 
all  in  leading-strings  at  her  feet.  It  amused 
her  to  arouse  their  hopes  and  then  their  fears, 
to  turn  them  round  her  finger  (she  used  to  call 
it  knocking  their  heads  together),  while  they 
never  dreamed  of  offering  resistance  and  eagerly 
submitted  to  her.  About  her  whole  being,  so 
full  of  life  and  beauty,  there  was  a  peculiarly 
bewitching  mixture  of  slyness  and  carelessness, 
of  artificiality  and  simplicity,  of  composure 
and  frolicsomeness  ;  about  everything  she  did 
283 


FIRST  LOVE 

or  5aid,  about  every  action  of  hers,  there  clung 
a  delicate,  fine  charm,  in  which  an  individual 
power  was  manifest  at  work.  And  her  face 
was  ever  changing,  working  too ;  it  expressed, 
almost  at  the  same  time,  irony,  dreaminess, 
and  passion.  Various  emotions,  delicate  and 
quick-changing  as  the  shadows  of  clouds  on 
a  sunny  day  of  wind,  chased  one  another  con- 
tinually over  her  lips  and  eyes. 

Each  of  her  adorers  was  necessary  to  her. 
Byelovzorov,  whom  she  sometimes  called  '  my 
wild  beast,' and  sometimes  simply 'mine,' would 
gladly  have  flung  himself  into  the  fire  for  her 
sake.  With  little  confidence  in  his  intellectual 
abilities  and  other  qualities,  he  was  for  ever 
offering  her  marriage,  hinting  that  the  others 
were  merely  hanging  about  with  no  serious 
intention.  ■  ^eidanov  responded  to  the  poetic 
fibres  of  her  nature;  a  man  of  rather  cold  tem- 
perament, like  almost  all  writers,  he  forced 
himself  to  convince  her,  and  perhaps  himself, 
that  he  adored  her,  sang  her  praises  in  endless 
verses,  and  read  them  to  her  with  a  peculiar 
enthusiasm,  at  once  affected  and  sincere.  She 
sympathised  with  him,  and  at  the  same  time 
jeered  at  him  a  little ;  she  had  no  great  faith 
in  him,  and  after  listening  to  his  outpourings, 
she  would  make  him  read  Pushkin,  as  she  said, 
to  clear  the  air.  Lushin,  the  ironical  doctor, 
284 


FIRST  LOVE 

SO  cynical  in  words,  knew  her  better  than  any 
of  them,  and  loved  her  more  than  all,  though 
he  abused  her  to  her  face  and  behind  her  back. 
She  could  not  help  respecting  him,  but  made 
him  smart  for  it,  and  at  times,  with  a  peculiar, 
malignant  pleasure,  made  him  feel  that  he  too 
was  at  her  mercy.  '  I  'm  a  flirt,  I  'm  heartless, 
I  'm  an  actress  in  my  instincts,'  she  said  to  him 
one  day  in  my  presence ;  '  well  and  good ! 
Give  me  your  hand  then  ;  I  '11  stick  this  pin  in 
it,  you  '11  be  ashamed  of  this  young  man's  seeing 
it,  it  will  hurt  you,  but  you  '11  laugh  for  all 
that,  you  truthful  person.'  Lushin  crimsoned, 
turned  away,  bit  his  lips,  but  ended  by  sub- 
mitting his  hand.  She  pricked  it,  and  he  did 
in  fact  begin  to  laugh,  .  .  .  and  she  laughed, 
thrusting  the  pin  in  pretty  deeply,  and  peeping 
into  his  eyes,  which  he  vainly  strove  to  keep  in 
other  directions.  .  .  . 

I  understood  least  of  all  the  relations  existincr 
between  Zinaida  a*nd  Count  Malevsky.  He  was 
handsome,  clever,  and  adroit,  but  something 
equivocal,  something  false  in  him  was  apparent 
even  to  me,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  and  I  marvelled 
that  Zinaida  did  not  notice  it.  But  possibly 
she  did  notice  this  element  of  falsity  really  and 
was  not  repelled  by  it.  Her  irregular  educa- 
tion, strange  acquaintances  and  habits,  the 
constant  presence  of  her  mother,  the  poverty 
285 


FIRST  LOVE 

and  disorder  in  their  house,  everything,  from 
the  very  liberty  the  young  girl  enjoyed,  with 
the  consciousness  of  her  superiority  to  the 
people  around  her,  had  developed  in  her  a  sort 
of  half-contemptuous  carelessness  and  lack  of 
fastidiousness.  At  any  time  anything  might 
happen ;  Vonifaty  might  announce  that  there 
was  no  sugar,  or  some  revolting  scandal  would 
come  to  her  ears,  or  her  guests  would  fall  to 
quarrelling  among  themselves — she  would  only 
shake  her  curls,  and  say,  'What  does  it  matter?' 
and  care  little  enough  about  it. 

But  my  blood,  anyway,  was  sometimes  on 
fire  with  indignation  when  Malevsky  approached 
her,  with  a  sly,  fox-like  action,  leaned  gracefully 
on  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  began  whispering 
in  her  ear  with  a  self-satisfied  and  ingratiating 
little  smile,  while  she  folded  her  arms  across 
her  bosom,  looked  intently  at  him  and  smiled 
too,  and  shook  her  head. 

'What  induces  you  to  receive  Count  Mal- 
evsky?' I  asked  her  one  day. 

'  He  has  such  pretty  moustaches,'  she  an- 
swered.    *  But  that 's  rather  beyond  you.' 

*  You  needn't  think  I  care  for  him,'  she  said 
to  me  another  time.  *  No ;  I  can't  care  for 
people  I  have  to  look  down  upon.  I  must 
have  some  one  who  can  master  me.  .  .  .  But, 
merciful  heavens,  I  hope  I  may  never  come 
286 


FIRST  LOVE 

across  any  one  like  that !  I  don't  want  to  be 
caught  in  any  one's  claws,  not  for  anything.' 

'  You  '11  never  be  in  love,  then  ?  ' 

'  And  you  ?  Don't  I  love  you  ?  '  she  said,  and 
she  flicked  me  on  the  nose  with  the  tip  of  her 
glove. 

Yes,  Zinaida  amused  herself  hugely  at  my 
expense.  For  three  weeks  I  saw  her  every 
day,  and  what  didn't  she  do  with  me !  She 
rarely  came  to  see  us,  and  I  was  not  sorry  for 
it ;  in  our  house  she  was  transformed  into  a 
young  lady,  a  young  princess,  and  I  was  a 
little  overawed  by  her.  I  was  afraid  of  be- 
traying myself  before  my  mother ;  she  had 
taken  a  great  dislike  to  Zinaida,  and  kept  a 
hostile  eye  upon  us.  My  father  I  was  not  so 
much  afraid  of;  he  seemed  not  to  notice  me. 
He  talked  little  to  her,  but  always  with  special 
cleverness  and  significance.  I  gave  up  working 
and  reading  ;  I  even  gave  up  walking  about 
the  neighbourhood  and  riding  my  horse.  Like 
a  beetle  tied  by  the  leg,  I  moved  continually 
round  and  round  my  beloved  little  lodge.  I 
would  gladly  have  stopped  there  altogether,  it 
seemed  .  .  .  but  that  was  impossible.  My 
mother  scolded  me,  and  sometimes  Zinaida 
herself  drove  me  away.  Then  I  used  to  shut 
myself  up  in  my  room,  or  go  down  to  the  very 
end  of  the  garden,  and  climbing  into  what  was 
287 


> 


\ 

FIRST   LOVE 


left  of  a  tall  stone  greenhouse,  now  in  ruins,  sit 
for  hours  with  my  legs  hanging  over  the  wall 
that  looked  on  to  the  road,  gazing  and  gazing 
and  seeing  nothing.  White  butterflies  flitted 
lazily  by  me,  over  the  dusty  nettles;  a  saucy 
sparrow  settled  not  far  off  on  the  half  crum- 
bling red  brickwork  and  twittered  irritably, 
incessantly  twisting  and  turning  and  preening 
his  tail-feathers ;  the  still  mistrustful  rooks 
cawed  now  and  then,  sitting  high,  high  up  on 
the  bare  top  of  a  birch-tree ;  the  sun  and  wind 
played  softly  on  its  pliant  branches  ;  the  tinkle 
of  the  bells  of  the  Don  monastery  floated  across 
to  me  from  time  to  time,  peaceful  and  dreary ; 
while  I  sat,  gazed,  listened,  and  was  filled  full 
of  a  nameless  sensation  in  which  all  was  con- 
tained :  sadness  and  joy  and  the  foretaste  of 
the  future,  and  the  desire  and  dread  of  life. 
But  at  that  time  I  understood  nothing  of  it, 
and  could  have  given  a  name  to  nothing  of  all 
that  was  passing  at  random  within  me,  or  should 
have  called  it  all  by  one  name — the  name  of 
Zinaida. 

Zinaida  continued  to  play  cat  and  mouse 
with  me.  She  flirted  with  me,  and  I  was  all  agi- 
tation and  rapture ;  then  she  would  suddenly 
thrust  me  away,  and  I  dared  not  go  near  her 
— dared  not  look  at  her. 

I  remember  she  was  very  cold  to  me  for 
288 


FIRST   LOVE 

several  days  together;  I  was  completely 
crushed,  and  creeping  timidly  to  their  lodge, 
tried  to  keep  close  to  the  old  princess,  regard- 
less of  the  circumstance  that  she  was  particularly 
scolding  and  grumbling  just  at  that  time  ;  her 
financial  affairs  had  been  going  badly,  and  she 
had  already  had  two  *  explanations '  with  the 
police  officials. 

One  day  I  was  walking  in  the  garden  beside 
the  familiar  fence,  and  I  caught  sight  of  Zin- 
aida  ;  leaning  on  both  arms,  she  was  sitting  on 
the  grass,  not  stirring  a  muscle.  I  was  about  to 
make  off  cautiously,  but  she  suddenly  raised  her 
head  and  beckoned  me  imperiously.  My  heart 
failed  me  ;  I  did  not  understand  her  at  first.  She 
repeated  her  signal.  I  promptly  jumped  over 
the  fence  and  ran  joyfully  up  to  her,  but  she 
brought  me  to  a  halt  with  a  look,  and  motioned 
me  to  the  path  two  paces  from  her.  In  con- 
fusion, not  knowing  what  to  do,  I  fell  on  my 
knees  at  the  edge  of  the  path.  She  was  so 
pale,  such  bitter  suffering,  such  intense  weari- 
ness, was  expressed  in  every  feature  of  her  face, 
that  it  sent  a  pang  to  my  heart,  and  I  muttered 
unconsciously,  'What  is  the  matter?' 

Zinaida  stretched  out  her  head,  picked  a  blade 
of  grass,  bit  it  and  flung  it  away  from  her. 

*  You  love  me  very  much  ? '  she  asked  at 
last.     *  Yes.' 


FIRST   LOVE 

I  made  no  answer — indeed,  what  need  was 
there  to  answer  ? 

*  Yes,'  she  repeated,  looking  at  me  as  before. 
'  That 's  so.  The  same  eyes,' — she  went  on  ; 
sank  into  thought,  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands.  '  Everything 's  grown  so  loathsome  to 
me,'  she  whispered,  '  I  would  have  gone  to  the 
other  end  of  the  world  first — I  can't  bear  it,  I 
can't  get  over  it.  .  .  .  And  what  is  there  before 
me !  .  .  .  Ah,  I  am  wretched.  .  .  .  My  God, 
how  wretched  I  am  ! ' 

'  What  for  ? '  I  asked  timidly. 

Zinaida  made  no  answer,  she  simply  shrugged 
her  shoulders.  I  remained  kneeling,  gazing  at 
her  with  intense  sadness.  Every  word  she  had 
uttered  simply  cut  me  to  the  heart.  At  that 
instant  I  felt  I  would  gladly  have  given  my  life, 
if  only  she  should  not  grieve.  I  gazed  at  her — 
and  though  I  could  not  understand  why  she 
was  wretched,  I  vividly  pictured  to  myself,  how 
in  a  fit  of  insupportable  anguish,  she  had  sud- 
denly come  out  into  the  garden,  and  sunk  to 
the  earth,  as  though  mown  down  by  a  scythe. 
It  was  all  bright  and  green  about  her ;  the  wind 
was  whispering  in  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  and 
swinging  now  and  then  a  long  branch  of  a  rasp- 
berry bush  over  Zinaida's  head.  There  was  a 
sound  of  the  cooing  of  doves,  and  the  bees 
hummed,  flying  low  over  the  scanty  grass. 
290 


FIRST   LOVE 

Overhead  the  sun  was  radiantly  blue — while  I 
was  so  sorrowful.  .  .  . 

*  Read  me  some  poetry,'  said  Zinaida  in  an 
undertone,  and  she  propped  herself  on  her 
elbow  ;  '  I  like  your  reading  poetry.  You  read 
it  in  sing-song,  but  that 's  no  matter,  that  comes 
of  being  young.  Read  me  "On  the  Hills  of 
Georgia."     Only  sit  down  first.' 

I  sat  down  and  read  'On  the  Hills  of 
Georgia.' 

' "  That  the  heart  cannot  choose  but  love," ' 
repeated  Zinaida.  'That's  where  poetry's  so 
fine  ;  it  tells  us  what  is  not,  and  what 's  not  only 
better  than  what  is,  but  much  more  like  the 
truth,  "  cannot  choose  but  love," — it  might  want 
not  to,  but  it  can't  help  it.'  She  was  silent 
again,  then  all  at  once  she  started  and  got  up. 
'  Come  along.  Meidanov's  indoors  with  mamma, 
he  brought  me  his  poem,  but  I  deserted  him. 
His  feelings  are  hurt  too  now  ...  I  can't  help 
it !  you  '11  understand  it  all  some  day  .  .  . 
only  don't  be  angry  with  me  ! ' 

Zinaida  hurriedly  pressed  my  hand  and  ran 
on  ahead.  We  went  back  into  the  lodge. 
Meidanov  set  to  reading  us  his  '  Manslayer,' 
which  had  just  appeared  in  print,  but  I  did  not 
hear  him.  He  screamed  and  drawled  his  four- 
foot  iambic  lines,  the  alternating  rhythms 
jingled  like  little  bells,  noisy  and  meaningless, 
291 


FIRST   LOVE 

while  I  still  watched  Zinaida  and  tried  to  take 
in  the  import  of  her  last  words. 

*  Perchance  some  unknown  rival 
Has  surprised  and  mastered  thee  ?' 

Meidanov  bawled  suddenly  thiough  his  nose — 
and  my  eyes  and  Zinaida's  met.  She  looked 
down  and  faintly  blushed.  I  saw  her  blush, 
and  grew  cold  with  terror.  I  had  been  jealous 
before,  but  only  at  that  instant  the  idea  of  her 
being  in  love  flashed  upon  my  mind.  '  Good 
God  !  she  is  in  love  ! ' 


X 

My  real  torments  began  from  that  instant. 
I  racked  my  brains,  changed  my  mind,  and 
changed  it  back  again,  and  kept  an  unremitting, 
though,  as  far  as  possible,  secret  watch  on 
Zinaida.  A  change  had  come  over  her,  that 
was  obvious.  She  began  going  walks  alone — 
and  long  walks.  Sometimes  she  would  not  see 
visitors ;  she  would  sit  for  hours  together  in 
her  room.  This  had  never  been  a  habit  of  hers 
till  now.  I  suddenly  became — or  fancied  I 
had  become — extraordinarily  penetrating. 

'Isn't  it  he?  or  isn't  it  he?'  I  asked  myself, 
passing   in   inward  agitation  from   one  of  her 
292 


FIRST    LOVE 

admirers  to  another.  Count  Malevsky  secretly 
struck  me  as  more  to  be  feared  than  the  others, 
though,  for  Zinaida's  sake,  I  was  ashamed  to 
confess  it  to  myself 

My  watchfulness  did  not  see  beyond  the  end 
of  my  nose,  and  its  secrecy  probably  deceived 
no  one ;  any  way,  Doctor  Lushin  soon  saw 
through  me.  But  he,  too,  had  changed  of  late  ; 
he  had  grown  thin,  he  laughed  as  often,  but  his 
laugh  seemed  more  hollow,  more  spiteful, shorter, 
an  involuntary  nervous  irritability  took  the 
place  of  his  former  light  irony  and  assumed 
cynicism. 

*  Why  are  you  incessantly  hanging  about  here, 
young  man  ? '  he  said  to  me  one  day,  when  we 
were  left  alone  together  in  the  Zasyekins' 
drawing-room.  (The  young  princess  had  not 
come  home  from  a  walk,  and  the  shrill  voice  of 
the  old  princess  could  be  heard  within ;  she 
was  scolding  the  maid.)  *  You  ought  to  be 
studying,  working — while  you  're  young — and 
what  are  you  doing  ? ' 

'You  can't  tell  whether  I  work  at  home,'  I 
retorted  with  some  haughtiness,  but  also  with 
some  hesitation. 

'A  great  deal  of  work  you  do!  that's  not 

what  you  're  thinking  about !     Well,   I   won't 

find  fault  with  that  ...  at  your  age  that 's  in 

the  natural  order  of  things.     But  you  've  been 

293 


FIRST  LOVE 

awfully  unlucky  in  your  choice.      Don't  you 
see  what  this  house  is  ? ' 

*  I  don't  understand  you,'  I  observed. 

*  You  don't  understand  ?  so  much  the  worse 
for  you.  I  regard  it  as  a  duty  to  warn  you. 
Old  bachelors,  like  me,  can  come  here,  what 
harm  can  it  do  us !  we  're  tough,  nothing  can 
hurt  us,  what  harm  can  it  do  us ;  but  your 
skin  's  tender  yet — this  air  is  bad  for  you — 
believe  me,  you  may  get  harm  from  it.' 

'  How  so  ?  ' 

'  Why,  are  you  well  now  ?  Are  you  in  a 
normal  condition  ?  Is  what  you  're  feeling — 
beneficial  to  you — good  for  you  ? ' 

'  Why,  what  am  I  feeling  ? '  I  said,  while  in 
my  heart  I  knew  the  doctor  was  right. 

*  Ah,  young  man,  young  man,'  the  doctor 
went  on  with  an  intonation  that  suggested  that 
something  highly  insulting  to  me  was  contained 
in  these  two  words,  '  what 's  the  use  of  your 
prevaricating,  when,  thank  God,  what 's  in  your 
heart  is  in  your  face,  so  far  ?  But  there,  what 's 
the  use  of  talking  ?  I  shouldn't  come  here  my- 
self, if .  .  .  (the  doctor  compressed  his  lips)  .  .  . 
if  I  weren't  such  a  queer  fellow.  Only  this  is 
what  surprises  me ;  how  it  is,  you,  with  your  intel- 
ligence, don't  see  what  is  going  on  around  you  ? ' 

*  And  what  is  going  on  ? '  I  put  in,  all  on  the 
alert. 

294 


FIRST    LOVE 

The  doctor  looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  ironi- 
cal compassion. 

*  Nice  of  me  ! '  he  said  as  though  to  himself, 
*  as  if  he  need  know  anything  of  it.  In  fact,  I 
tell  you  again/  he  added,  raising  his  voice,  *  the 
atmosphere  here  is  not  fit  for  you.  You  like 
being  here,  but  what  of  that !  it 's  nice  and 
sweet-smelling  in  a  greenhouse — but  there 's  no 
living  in  it.  Yes !  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  go 
back  to  your  Keidanov.' 

The  old  princess  came  in,  and  began  com- 
plaining to  the  doctor  of  her  toothache.  Then 
Zinaida  appeared. 

'  Come,'  said  the  old  princess,  '  you  must 
scold  her,  doctor.  She  's  drinking  iced  water 
all  day  long  ;  is  that  good  for  her,  pray,  with 
her  delicate  chest  ? ' 

'  Why  do  you  do  that  ? '  asked  Lushin. 

*  Why,  what  effect  could  it  have  ? ' 

'What  effect?  You  might  get  a  chill  and 
die.' 

'  Truly  ?  Do  you  mean  it  ?  Very  well — so 
much  the  better.' 

'  A  fine  idea ! '  muttered  the  doctor.  The 
old  princess  had  gone  out. 

*  Yes,  a  fine  idea,'  repeated  Zinaida.  '  Is  life 
such  a  festive  affair?  Just  look  about  you. 
...  Is  it  nice,  eh?  Or  do  you  imagine  I  don't 
understand  it,  and  don't  feel  it?     It  gives  me 

295 


FIRST  LOVE 

pleasure — drinking  iced  water ;  and  can  you 
seriously  assure  me  that  such  a  life  is  worth  too 
much  to  be  risked  for  an  instant's  pleasure — 
happiness  I  won't  even  talk  about.' 

*  Oh,  very  well,'  remarked  Lushin,  *  caprice 
^and  irresponsibility.  .  .  .  Those  two  words  sum 
you  up;  your  whole  nature's  contained  in  those 
two  words.' 

Zinai'da  laughed  nervously. 

'You're  late  for  the  post,  my  dear  doctor. 
You  don't  keep  a  good  look-out;  you 're  behind 
the  times.  Put  on  your  spectacles.  I  'm  in  no 
capricious  humour  now.  To  make  fools  of  you, 
to  make  a  fool  of  myself  .  .  .  much  fun  there 
is  in  that ! — and  as  for  irresponsibility  .  .  . 
M'sieu  Voldemar,'  Zinaida  added  suddenly, 
stamping,  *  don't  make  such  a  melancholy  face. 
I  can't  endure  people  to  pity  me.'  She  went 
quickly  out  of  the  room. 

'It's  bad  for  you,  very  bad  for  you,  this 
atmosphere,  young  man,'  Lushin  said  to  me 
once  more. 


XI 


On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  the  usual 
guests  were  assembled  at  the  Zasyekins*.  I 
was  among  them. 

The  conversation  turned  on  Meidanov's  poem. 
296 


FIRST   LOVE 

Zinaida  expressed  genuine  admiration  of  it. 
'But  do  you  know  what?'  she  said  to  him. 
*  If  I  were  a  poet,  I  would  choose  quite  different 
subjects.  Perhaps  it's  all  nonsense,  but  strange 
ideas  sometimes  come  into  my  head,  especially 
when  I  'm  not  asleep  in  the  early  morning, 
when  the  sky  begins  to  turn  rosy  and  grey  both 
at  once.  I  would,  for  instance  .  .  .  You  won't 
laugh  at  me  ? ' 

*  No,  no  ! '  we  all  cried,  with  one  voice. 

*  I  would  describe,'  she  went  on,  folding  her 
arms  across  her  bosom  and  looking  away,  'a 
whole  company  of  young  girls  at  night  in  a 
great  boat,  on  a  silent  river.  The  moon  is 
shining,  and  they  are  all  in  white,  and  wearing 
garlands  of  white  flowers,  and  singing,  you 
know,  something  in  the  nature  of  a  hymn.' 

*  I  see — I  see  ;  go  on,'  Meidanov  commented 
with  dreamy  significance. 

'All  of  a  sudden,  loud  clamour,  laughter, 
torches,  tambourines  on  the  bank.  ...  It's  a 
troop  of  Bacchantes  dancing  with  songs  and 
cries.  It's  your  business  to  make  a  picture  of 
it,  Mr.  Poet;  .  .  .  only  I  should  like  the  torches 
to  be  red  and  to  smoke  a  great  deal,  and  the 
Bacchantes'  eyes  to  gleam  under  their  wreaths, 
and  the  wreaths  to  be  dusky.  Don't  forget  the 
tiger-skins,  too,  and  goblets  and  gold — lots  of 

gold ' 

297 


FIRST   LOVE 

'Where  ought  the  gold  to  be?'  asked 
Meidanov,  tossing  back  his  sleek  hair  and 
distending  his  nostrils. 

*  Where?  on  their  shoulders  and  arms  and 
legs — everywhere.  They  say  in  ancient  times 
women  wore  gold  rings  on  their  ankles.  The 
Bacchantes  call  the  girls  in  the  boat  to  them. 
The  girls  have  ceased  singing  their  hymn — 
they  cannot  go  on  with  it,  but  they  do  not  stir, 
the  river  carries  them  to  the  bank.  And  sud- 
denly one  of  them  slowly  rises.  .  .  .  This  you 
must  describe  nicely :  how  she  slowly  gets  up 
in  the  moonlight,  and  how  her  companions  are 
afraid.  .  .  .  She  steps  over  the  edge  of  the 
boat,  the  Bacchantes  surround  her,  whirl  her 
away  into  night  and  darkness.  .  .  .  Here  put 
in  smoke  in  clouds  and  everything  in  confusion. 
There  is  nothing  but  the  sound  of  their  shrill 
cry,  and  her  wreath  left  lying  on  the  bank.' 

Zinai'da  ceased.  ('  Oh !  she  is  in  love ! '  I 
thought  again.) 

'  And  is  that  all  ? '  asked  Meidanov. 

'  That 's  all.' 

'  That  can't  be  the  subject  of  a  whole  poem,' 
he  observed  pompously,  '  but  I  will  make  use 
of  your  idea  for  a  lyrical  fragment.' 

'  In  the  romantic  style  ? '  queried  Malevsky. 

'  Of  course,  in  the  romantic  style — Byronic' 

'  Well,  to  my  mind,  Hugo  beats  Byron,'  the 
298 


FIRST   LOVE 


young  count  observed  negligently;  'he's  more 


interesting. 


*  Hugo  is  a  writer  of  the  first  class,'  replied 
Neidanov  ;  'and  my  friend,  Tonkosheev,  in  his 
Spanish  romance,  El  Trovador  .  .  .' 

*  Ah !  is  that  the  book  with  the  question- 
marks  turned  upside  down  ? '  Zinaida  inter- 
rupted. 

'  Yes.  That 's  the  custom  with  the  Spanish. 
I  was  about  to  observe  that  Tonkosheev  .  .  .' 

'Come !  you  're  going  to  argue  about  classicism 
and  romanticism  again,'  Zinaida  interrupted  him 
a  second  time.     'We'd  much  better  play  .  .  . 

'  Forfeits  ? '  put  in  Lushin. 

'  No,  forfeits  are  a  bore ;  at  comparisons.' 
(This  game  Zinaida  had  invented  herself. 
Some  object  was  mentioned,  every  one  tried 
to  compare  it  with  something,  and  the  one  who 
chose  the  best  comparison  got  a  prize.) 

She  went  up  to  the  window.  The  sun  was 
just  setting  ;  high  up  in  the  sky  were  large  red 
clouds. 

'  What  are  those  clouds  like  ? '  questioned 
Zinaida ;  and  without  waiting  for  our  answer, 
she  said,  '  I  think  they  are  like  the  purple  sails 
on  the  golden  ship  of  Cleopatra,  when  she  sailed 
to  meet  Antony.  Do  you  remember,  Neidanov, 
you  were  telling  me  about  it  not  long  ago?' 

All  of  us,  like  Polonius  in  Hamlet^  opined 
299 


FIRST  LOVE 

that  the  clouds  recalled  nothing  so  much  as 
those  sails,  and  that  not  one  of  us  could  dis- 
cover a  better  comparison. 

*  And  how  old  was  Antony  then  ? '  inquired 
Zinai'da. 

'  A  young  man,  no  doubt,'  observed  Malevsky. 
*Yes,  a  young  man,'  Meidanov  chimed  in  in 
confirmation. 

*  Excuse  me,'  cried  Lushin,  '  he  was  over 
forty.' 

'  Over  forty,'  repeated  Zinai'da,  giving  him  a 
rapid  glance.  .  .  . 

I  soon  went  home.  *  She  is  in  love,'  my  lips 
unconsciously  repeated.  .  .  .  'But  with  whom?' 


XII 


The  days  passed  by.  Zinaida  became  stranger 
and  stranger,  and  more  and  more  incompre- 
hensible. One  day  I  went  over  to  her,  and  saw 
her  sitting  in  a  basket-chair,  her  head  pressed 
to  the  sharp  edge  of  the  table.  She  drew  her- 
self up  .  .  .  her  whole  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

'  Ah,  you ! '  she  said  with  a  cruel  smile. 
*  Come  here.' 

I  went  up  to  her.  She  put  her  hand  on  my 
head,  and  suddenly  catching  hold  of  my  hair, 
began  pulling  it. 

300 


FIRST   LOVE 

*  It  hurts  me,'  I  said  at  last. 

*  Ah  !  does  it?  And  do  you  suppose  nothing 
hurts  me  ?  *  she  replied. 

'  Ai ! '  she  cried  suddenly,  seeing  she  had 
pulled  a  little  tuft  of  hair  out.  *  What  have  I 
done?     Poor  M'sieu  Voldemar  ! ' 

She  carefully  smoothed  the  hair  she  had  torn 
out,  stroked  it  round  her  finger,  and  twisted  it 
into  a  ring. 

*  I  shall  put  your  hair  in  a  locket  and  wear  it 
round  my  neck,'  she  said,  while  the  tears  still 
glittered  in  her  eyes.  '  That  will  be  some  small 
consolation  to  you,  perhaps  .  .  .  and  now 
good-bye.' 

I  went  home,  and  found  an  unpleasant  state 
of  things  there.  My  mother  was  having  a  scene 
with  my  father ;  she  was  reproaching  him  with 
something,  while  he,  as  his  habit  was,  main- 
tained a  polite  and  chilly  silence,  and  soon  left 
her.  I  could  not  hear  what  my  mother  was 
talking  of,  and  indeed  I  had  no  thought  to 
spare  for  the  subject ;  I  only  remember  that 
when  the  interview  was  over,  she  sent  for  mc  to 
her  room,  and  referred  with  great  displeasure 
to  the  frequent  visits  I  paid  the  princess,  who 
was,  in  her  words,  une  feinj)ie  capable  de  tout. 
I  kissed  her  hand  (this  was  what  I  always  did 
when  I  wanted  to  cut  short  a  conversation)  and 
went  off  to  my  room.  Zinaida's  tears  had  com- 
301 


FIRST   LOVE 

pletely  overwhelmed  me ;  I  positively  did  not 
know  what  to  think,  and  was  ready  to  cry  my- 
self; I  was  a  child  after  all,  in  spite  of  my 
sixteen  years.  I  had  now  given  up  thinking 
about  Malevsky,  though  Byelovzorov  looked 
more  and  more  threatening  every  day,  and 
glared  at  the  wily  count  like  a  wolf  at  a  sheep  ; 
but  I  thought  of  nothing  and  of  no  one.  I  was 
lost  in  imaginings,  and  was  always  seeking 
seclusion  and  solitude.  I  was  particularly  fond 
of  the  ruined  greenhouse.  I  would  climb  up 
on  the  high  wall,  and  perch  myself,  and  sit 
there,  such  an  unhappy,  lonely,  and  melancholy 
youth,  that  I  felt  sorry  for  myself — and  how  con- 
solatory where  those  mournful  sensations,  how 
I  revelled  in  them !  .  .  . 

One  day  I  was  sitting  on  the  wall  looking 
into  the  distance  and  listening  to  the  ringing 
of  the  bells.  .  .  .  Suddenly  something  floated 
up  to  me — not  a  breath  of  wind  and  not  a  shiver, 
but  as  it  were  a  whiff  of  fragrance — as  it  were, 
a  sense  of  some  one's  being  near.  ...  I  looked 
down.  Below,  on  the  path,  in  a  light  greyish 
gown,  with  a  pink  parasol  on  her  shoulder,  was 
Zinaida,  hurrying  along.  She  caught  sight  of 
me,  stopped,  and  pushing  back  the  brim  of  her 
straw  hat,  she  raised  her  velvety  eyes  to  me. 

'What  are  you  doing  up  there  at  such  a 
height.?'  she  asked  me  with  a  rather  queer 
302 


FIRST   LOVE 

smile.  /Come,'  she  went  on,  'you  always  de- 
clare you  love  me ;  jump  down  into  the  road 
to  me  if  you  really  do  love  me.' 

Zinaida  had  hardly  uttered  those  words  when 
I  flew  down,  just  as  though  some  one  had  given 
me  a  violent  push  from  behind.  The  wall  was 
about  fourteen  feet  high.  I  reached  the  ground 
on  my  feet,  but  the  shock  was  so  great  that 
I  could  not  keep  my  footing ;  I  fell  down,  and 
for  an  instant  fainted  away.  When  I  came  to 
myself  again,  without  opening  my  eyes,  I  felt 
Zinaida  beside  me.  '  My  dear  boy,'  she  was 
saying,  bending  over  me,  and  there  was  a  note 
of  alarmed  tenderness  in  her  voice, '  how  could 
you  do  it,  dear ;  how  could  you  obey  ?  .  .  .  You 
know  I  love  you.  .  .  .     Get  up.' 

Her  bosom  was  heaving  close  to  me,  her 
hands  were  caressing  my  head,  and  suddenly 
— what  were  my  emotions  at  that  moment — 
her  soft,  fresh  lips  began  covering  my  face 
with  kisses  .  .  .  they  touched  my  lips.  .  .  . 
But  then  Zinaida  probably  guessed  by  the 
expression  of  my  face  that  I  had  regained 
consciousness,  though  I  still  kept  my  eyes 
closed,  and  rising  rapidly  to  her  feet,  she  said  : 
'  Come,  get  up,  naughty  boy,  silly,  why  are  you 
lying  in  the  dust?'  I  got  up.  'Give  me  my 
parasol,'  said  Zinaida,  '  I  threw  it  down  some- 
where, and  don't  stare  at  me  like  that  .  .  . 
303 


FIRST   LOVE 

what  ridiculous  nonsense  !  you  're  not  hurt,  are 
you  ?  stung  by  the  nettles,  I  daresay  ?  Don't 
stare  at  me,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  But  he  doesn't 
understand,  he  doesn't  answer,'  she  added,  as 
though  to  herself.  .  .  .  '  Go  home,  M'sieu'  Vol- 
demar,  brush  yourself,  and  don't  dare  to  follow 
me,  or  I  shall  be  angry,  and  never  again  .  .  .' 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  but  walked 
rapidly  away,  while  I  sat  down  by  the  side  of 
the  road  .  .  .  my  legs  would  not  support  me. 
The  nettles  had  stung  my  hands,  my  back 
ached,  and  my  head  was  giddy ;  but  the  feel- 
ing of  rapture  I  experienced  then  has  never 
come  a  second  time  in  my  life.  It  turned  to 
a  sweet  ache  in  all  my  limbs  and  found  ex- 
pression at  last  in  joyful  hops  and  skips  and 
shouts.     Yes,  I  was  still  a  child. 

XIII 

I  WAS  SO  proud  and  light-hearted  all  that  day, 
I  so  vividly  retained  on  my  face  the  feeling  of 
Zinaida's  kisses,  with  such  a  shudder  of  delight  I 
recalled  every  word  she  had  uttered,  I  so  hugged 
my  unexpected  happiness  that  I  felt  positively 
afraid,  positively  unwiUing  to  see  her,  who  had 
given  rise  to  these  new  sensations.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  now  I  could  ask  nothing  more  of 
fate,  that  now  I  ought  to  '  go,  and  draw  a  deep 
304 


FIRST   LOVE 

last  sigh  and  die.'  But,  next  day,  when  I  went 
into  the  lodge,  I  felt  great  embarrassment,  which 
I  tried  to  conceal  under  a  show  of  modest  con- 
fidence, befitting  a  man  who  wishes  to  make  it 
apparent  that  he  knows  how  to  keep  a  secret. 
Zinaida  received  me  very  simply,  without  any 
emotion,  she  simply  shook  her  finger  at  me  and 
asked  me,  whether  I  wasn't  black  and  blue? 
All  my  modest  confidence  and  air  of  mystery 
vanished  instantaneously  and  with  them  my 
embarrassment.  Of  course,  I  had  not  expected 
anything  particular,  but  Zinaida's  composure 
was  like  a  bucket  of  cold  water  thrown  over 
me.  I  realised  that  in  her  eyes  I  was  a  child, 
and  was  extremely  miserable  !  Zinaida  walked 
up  and  down  the  room,  giving  me  a  quick  smile, 
whenever  she  caught  my  eye,  but  her  thoughts 
were  far  away,  I  saw  that  clearly.  .  .  .  '  Shall  I 
begin  about  what  happened  yesterday  myself,' 
I  pondered  ;  '  ask  her,  where  she  was  hurrying 
off  so  fast,  so  as  to  find  out  once  for  all ' 
.  .  .  but  with  a  gesture  of  despair,  I  merely 
went  and  sat  down  in  a  corner. 

Byelovzorov  came  in  ;  I  felt  relieved  to  see 
him. 

*  I  've  not  been  able  to  find  you  a  quiet 
horse,'  he  said  in  a  sulky  voice ;  '  Freitag 
warrants  one,  but  I  don't  feel  any  confidence 
in  it,  I  am  afraid.' 

u  305 


FIRST   LOVE 

*What  are  you  afraid  of?'  said  Zinaida ; 
*  allow  me  to  inquire?' 

'What  am  I  afraid  of?  Why,  you  don't 
know  how  to  ride.  Lord  save  us,  what  might 
happen  !  What  whim  is  this  has  come  over 
you  all  of  a  sudden?' 

'Come,  that's  my  business,  Sir  Wild  Beast. 
In  that  case  I  will  ask  Piotr  Vassilievitch.'  .  .  . 
(My  father's  name  was  Piotr  Vassilievitch.  I 
was  surprised  at  her  mentioning  his  name  so 
lightly  and  freely,  as  though  she  were  confident 
of  his  readiness  to  do  her  a  service.) 

*  Oh,  indeed,'  retorted  Byelovzorov,  '  you 
mean  to  go  out  riding  with  him  then  ? ' 

*  With  him  or  with  some  one  else  is  nothing 
to  do  with  you.     Only  not  with  you,  anyway.' 

'  Not  with  me,'  repeated  Byelovzorov.  '  As 
you  wish.     Well,  I  shall  find  you  a  horse.' 

*  Yes,  only  mind  now,  don't  send  some  old 
cow.     I  warn  you  I  want  to  gallop.' 

*  Gallop  away  by  all  means  .  .  .  with  whom 
is  it,  with  Malevsky,  you  are  going  to  ride  ? ' 

*  And  why  not  with  him,  Mr.  Pugnacity  ? 
Come,  be  quiet,'  she  added,  *  and  don't  glare. 
I  '11  take  you  too.  You  know  that  to  my  mind 
now  Malevsky 's — ugh  ! '     She  shook  her  head. 

'  You  say  that  to  console  me,'  growled  Bye- 
lovzorov. 

Zinaida  half  closed   her   eyes.     *  Does  that 
306 


FIRST  LOVE 

console  you?  0...0...0...  Mr. 
Pugnacity!'  she  said  at  last,  as  though  she 
could  find  no  other  word.  *  And  you,  M'sieu' 
Voldemar,  would  you  come  with  us  ? ' 

*  I  don't  care  to  ...  in  a  large  party,'  I 
muttered,  not  raising  my  eyes. 

'  You  prefer  a  tcte-a-tite  ?  .  .  .  Well,  freedom 
to  the  free,  and  heaven  to  the  saints,'  she  com- 
mented with  a  sigh.  *  Go  along,  Byelovzorov, 
and  bestir  yourself.  I  must  have  a  horse  for 
to-morrow.' 

'  Oh,  and  where 's  the  money  to  come  from  ? ' 
put  in  the  old  princess. 

Zinaida  scowled. 

'  I  won't  ask  you  for  it ;  Byelovzorov  will 
trust  me.' 

'He'll  trust  you,  will  he?'  .  .  .  grumbled 
the  old  princess,  and  all  of  a  sudden  she 
screeched  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  '  Duniashka  ! ' 

*  Maman,  I  have  given  you  a  bell  to  ring,' 
observed  Zinaida. 

'  Duniashka  ! '  repeated  the  old  lady. 
Byelovzorov  took  leave ;  I  went  away  with 
him.     Zinaida  did  not  try  to  detain  me. 

XIV 

The   next  day  I  got  up  early,  cut  myself  a 

stick,  and    set  off  beyond  the   town-gates.     I 

307 


FIRST  LOVE 

thought  I  would  walk  off  my  sorrow.  It  was 
a  lovely  day,  bright  and  not  too  hot,  a  fresh 
sportive  breeze  roved  over  the  earth  with 
temperate  rustle  and  frolic,  setting  all  things 
a-flutter  and  harassing  nothing.  I  wandered 
a  long  while  over  hills  and  through  woods ;  I 
had  not  felt  happy,  I  had  left  home  with  the 
intention  of  giving  myself  up  to  melancholy, 
but  youth,  the  exquisite  weather,  the  fresh  air, 
the  pleasure  of  rapid  motion,  the  sweetness  of 
repose,  lying  on  the  thick  grass  in  a  solitary 
nook,  gained  the  upper  hand  ;  the  memory  of 
those  never-to-be-forgotten  words,  those  kisses, 
forced  itself  once  more  upon  my  soul.  It 
was  sweet  to  me  to  think  that  Zinaida  could 
not,  anyway,  fail  to  do  justice  to  my  courage, 
my  heroism.  .  .  .  '  Others  may  seem  better 
to  her  than  I,'  I  mused,  '  let  them  !  But 
others  only  say  what  they  would  do,  while  I 
have  done  it.  And  what  more  would  I  not  do 
for  her?'  My  fancy  set  to  work.  I  began 
picturing  to  myself  how  I  would  save  her  from 
the  hands  of  enemies  ;  how,  covered  with  blood 
I  would  tear  her  by  force  from  prison,  and 
expire  at  her  feet.  I  remembered  a  picture 
hanging  in  our  drawing-room  —  Malek-Adel 
bearing  away  Matilda — but  at  that  point  my 
attention  was  absorbed  by  the  appearance  of 
a  speckled  woodpecker  who  climbed  busily  up 
308 


FIRST  LOVE 

the  slender  stem  of  a  birch-tree  and  peeped  out 
uneasily  from  behind  it,  first  to  the  right,  then 
to  the  left,  like  a  musician  behind  the  bass-viol. 
Then  I  sang  *  Not  the  white  snows,'  and 
passed  from  that  to  a  song  well  known  at 
that  period  :  '  I  await  thee,  when  the  wanton 
zephyr,'  then  I  began  reading  aloud  Yermak's 
address  to  the  stars  from  Homyakov's  tragedy. 
I  made  an  attempt  to  compose  something  my- 
self in  a  sentimental  vein,  and  invented  the 
line  which  was  to  conclude  each  verse  :  *  O 
Zinaida,  Zinaida ! '  but  could  get  no  further 
with  it.  Meanwhile  it  was  getting  on  towards 
dinner-time.  I  went  down  into  the  valley  ;  a 
narrow  sandy  path  winding  through  it  led  to 
the  town.  I  walked  along  this  path.  .  .  .  The 
dull  thud  of  horses'  hoofs  resounded  behind  me. 
I  looked  round  instinctively,  stood  still  and  took 
off  my  cap.  I  saw  my  father  and  Zinaida.  They 
were  riding  side  by  side.  My  father  was  say- 
ing something  to  her,  bending  right  over  to  her, 
his  hand  propped  on  the  horses'  neck,  he  was 
smiling.  Zinaida  listened  to  him  in  silence,  her 
eyes  severely  cast  down,  and  her  lips  tightly 
pressed  together.  At  first  I  saw  them  only  ; 
but  a  few  instants  later,  Byelovzorov  came  into 
sight  round  a  bend  in  the  glade,  he  was  wearing 
a  hussar's  uniform  with  a  pelisse,  and  riding  a 
foaming  black  horse.  The  gallant  horse  tossed 
309 


FIRST   LOVE 

its  head,  snorted  and  pranced  from  side  to  side, 
his  rider  was  at  once  holding  him  in  and  spur- 
ring him  on.  I  stood  aside.  My  father  gathered 
up  the  reins,  moved  away  from  Zinaida,  she 
slowly  raised  her  eyes  to  him,  and  both 
galloped  off.  .  .  .  Byelovzorov  flew  after 
them,  his  sabre  clattering  behind  him.  'He's 
as  red  as  a  crab,'  I  reflected,  *  while  she  .  .  . 
why 's  she  so  pale  ?  out  riding  the  whole 
morning,  and  pale  ? ' 

I  redoubled  my  pace,  and  got  home  just  at 
dinner-time.  My  father  was  already  sitting  by 
my  mother's  chair,  dressed  for  dinner,  washed 
and  fresh ;  he  was  reading  an  article  from  the 
Journal  des  Debats  in  his  smooth  musical  voice  ; 
but  my  mother  heard  him  without  attention, 
and  when  she  saw  me,  asked  where  I  had  been 
to  all  day  long,  and  added  that  she  didn't  like 
this  gadding  about  God  knows  where,  and  God 
knows  in  what  company.  *But  I  have  been 
walking  alone,'  I  was  on  the  point  of  replying, 
but  I  looked  at  my  father,  and  for  some  reason 
or  other  held  my  peace. 

XV 

For  the  next  five  or  six  days  I  hardly  saw 

Zinaida ;  she  said  she  was  ill,  which  did  not, 

however,  prevent  the  usual  visitors  from  calling 

310 


FIRST   LOVE 

at  the  lodge  to  pay — as  they  expressed  it,  their 
duty — all,  that  is,  except  Meidanov,  who 
promptly  grew  dejected  and  sulky  when  he 
had  not  an  opportunity  of  being  enthusiastic. 
Byelovzorov  sat  sullen  and  red-faced  in  a 
corner,  buttoned  up  to  the  throat ;  on  the 
refined  face  of  Malevsky  there  flickered  con- 
tinually an  evil  smile  ;  he  had  really  fallen  into 
disfavour  with  Zinaida,  and  waited  with  special 
assiduity  on  the  old  princess,  and  even  went 
with  her  in  a  hired  coach  to  call  on  the 
Governor-General.  This  expedition  turned  out 
unsuccessful,  however,  and  even  led  to  an 
unpleasant  experience  for  Malevsky  ;  he  was 
reminded  of  some  scandal  to  do  with  certain 
officers  of  the  engineers,  and  was  forced  in  his 
explanations  to  plead  his  youth  and  inexperi- 
ence at  the  time.  Lushin  came  twice  a  day, 
but  did  not  stay  long  ;  I  was  rather  afraid  of 
him  after  our  last  unreserved  conversation,  and 
at  the  same  time  felt  a  genuine  attraction  to 
him.  He  went  a  walk  with  me  one  day  in  the 
Neskutchny  gardens,  was  very  good-natured 
and  nice,  told  me  the  names  and  properties  of 
various  plants  and  flowers,  and  suddenly, 
a  propos  of  nothing  at  all,  cried,  hitting  himself 
on  his  forehead,  '  And  I,  poor  fool,  thought  her 
a  flirt!  it's  clear  self-sacrifice  is  sweet  for  some 
people !  * 

3" 


FIRST   LOVE 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? '  I  inquired. 

*  I  don't  mean  to  tell  you  anything,'  Lushin 
replied  abruptly. 

Zinai'da  avoided  me  ;  my  presence — I  could 
not  help  noticing  it — affected  her  disagreeably. 
She  involuntarily  turned  away  from  me  .  .  . 
involuntarily ;  that  was  what  was  so  bitter,  that 
was  what  crushed  me  !  But  there  was  no  help 
for  it,  and  I  tried  not  to  cross  her  path,  and  only 
to  watch  her  from  a  distance,  in  which  I  was 
not  always  successful.  As  before,  something 
incomprehensible  was  happening  to  her  ;  her 
face  was  different,  she  was  different  altogether. 
I  was  specially  struck  by  the  change  that  had 
taken  place  in  her  one  warm  still  evening.  I 
was  sitting  on  a  low  garden  bench  under  a 
spreading  elderbush  ;  I  was  fond  of  that  nook  ; 
I  could  see  from  there  the  window  of  Zinaida's 
room.  I  sat  there  ;  over  my  head  a  little  bird 
was  busily  hopping  about  in  the  darkness  of 
the  leaves  ;  a  grey  cat,  stretching  herself  at  full 
length,  crept  warily  about  the  garden,  and  the 
first  beetles  were  heavily  droning  in  the  air, 
which  was  still  clear,  though  it  was  not  light. 
I  sat  and  gazed  at  the  window,  and  waited  to 
see  if  it  would  open  ;  it  did  open,  and  Zinaida 
appeared  at  it.  She  had  on  a  white  dress,  and 
she  herself,  her  face,  shoulders,  and  arms,  were 
pale  to  whiteness.  She  stayed  a  long  while 
312 


FIRST   LOVE 

without  moving,  and  looked  out  straight  before 
her  from  under  her  knitted  brows.  I  had  never 
known  such  a  look  on  her.  Then  she  clasped 
her  hands  tightly,  raised  them  to  her  lips,  to  her 
forehead,  and  suddenly  pulling  her  fingers 
apart,  she  pushed  back  her  hair  behind  her  ears, 
tossed  it,  and  with  a  sort  of  determination 
nodded  her  head,  and  slammed-to  the  window. 

Three  days  later  she  met  me  in  the  garden. 
I  was  turning  away,  but  she  stopped  me  of 
herself. 

'  Give  me  your  arm,'  she  said  to  me  with  her 
old  afifectionateness,  *  it 's  a  long  while  since  we 
have  had  a  talk  together.' 

I  stole  a  look  at  her ;  her  eyes  were  full  of  a 
soft  light,  and  her  face  seemed  as  it  were 
smiling  through  a  mist 

*  Are  you  still  not  well  ? '  I  asked  her. 

*  No,  that's  all  over  now,'  she  answered,  and 
she  picked  a  small  red  rose.  '  I  am  a  little 
tired,  but  that  too  will  pass  off.' 

*  And  will  you  be  as  you  used  to  be  again  ? ' 
I  asked. 

Zinaida  put  the  rose  up  to  her  face,  and  I 
fancied  the  reflection  of  its  bright  petals  had 
fallen  on  her  cheeks.  '  Why,  am  I  changed  ? ' 
she  questioned  me. 

*  Yes,  you  are  changed,'  I  answered  in  a  low 
voice. 

313 


FIRST   LOVE 

*  I  have  been  cold  to  you,  I  know,'  began 
Zinaida,  '  but  you  mustn't  pay  attention  to  that 
.  .  .  I  couldn't  help  it.  .  .  .  Come,  why  talk 
about  it ! ' 

*  You  don't  want  me  to  love  you,  that 's  what  it 
is  ! '  I  cried  gloomily,  in  an  involuntary  outburst. 

*  No,  love  me,  but  not  as  you  did.' 
'  How  then  ? ' 

'  Let  us  be  friends — come  now  ! '  Zinaida 
gave  me  the  rose  to  smell.  '  Listen,  you  know 
I  'm  much  older  than  you — I  might  be  your 
aunt,  really ;  well,  not  your  aunt,  but  an  older 
sister.     And  you  .  .  .' 

*  You  think  me  a  child,'  I  interrupted. 

'  Well,  yes,  a  child,  but  a  dear,  good  clever 
one,  whom  I  love  very  much.  Do  you  know 
what?  From  this  day  forth  I  confer  on  you 
the  rank  of  page  to  me  ;  and  don't  you  forget 
that  pages  have  to  keep  close  to  their  ladies. 
Here  is  the  token  of  your  new  dignity,'  she 
added,  sticking  the  rose  in  the  buttonhole  of 
my  jacket,  '  the  token  of  my  favour.' 

*  I  once  received  other  favours  from  you,'  I 
muttered. 

*  Ah  ! '  commented  Zinaida,  and  she  gave  me 
a  sidelong  look,  *  What  a  memory  he  has  ! 
Well  ?  I  'm  quite  ready  now  .  .  .'  And  stoop- 
ing to  me,  she  imprinted  on  my  forehead  a  pure, 
tranquil  kiss. 

314 


FIRST   LOVE 

I  only  looked  at  her,  while  she  turned  away, 
and  saying,  '  Follow  me,  my  page,'  went  into 
the  lodge.     I  followed  her — all  in  amazement. 

*  Can  this  gentle,  reasonable  girl,'   I   thought, 

*  be  the  Zinaida  I  used  to  know  ? '  I  fancied 
her  very  walk  was  quieter,  her  whole  figure 
statelier  and  more  graceful  .  .  . 

And,  mercy !  with  what  fresh  force  love 
burned  within  me ! 


XVI 

After  dinner  the  usual  party  assembled  again 
at  the  lodge,  and  the  young  princess  came  out 
to  them.  All  were  there  in  full  force,  just  as 
on  that  first  evening  which  I  never  forgot  ;  even 
Nirmatsky  had  limped  to  see  her;  Meidanov 
came  this  time  earliest  of  all,  he  brought  some 
new  verses.  The  games  of  forfeits  began  again, 
but  without  the  strange  pranks,  the  practical 
jokes  and  noise — the  gipsy  element  had 
vanished.  Zinaida  gave  a  different  tone  to  the 
proceedings.  I  sat  beside  her  by  virtue  of  my 
office  as  page.  Among  other  things,  she  pro- 
posed that  any  one  who  had  to  pay  a  forfeit 
should  tell  his  dream  ;  but  this  was  not  success- 
ful. The  dreams  were  either  uninteresting 
315 


FIRST  LOVE 

(Byelovzorov  had  dreamed  that  he  fed  his 
mare  on  carp,  and  that  she  had  a  wooden  head), 
or  unnatural  and  invented.  Meidanov  regaled 
us  with  a  regular  romance  ;  there  were 
sepulchres  in  it,  and  angels  with  lyres,  and 
talking  flowers  and  music  wafted  from  afar. 
Zinaida  did  not  let  him  finish.  'If  we  are  to 
have  compositions,'  she  said,  '  let  every  one  tell 
something  made  up,  and  no  pretence  about  it* 
The  first  who  had  to  speak  was  again  Byelov- 
zorov. 

The  young  hussar  was  confused.  '  I  can't 
make  up  anything  ! '  he  cried. 

'What  nonsense!'  said  Zinaida.  'Well, 
imagine,  for  instance,  you  are  married,  and  tell 
us  how  you  would  treat  your  wife.  Would  you 
lock  her  up  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  should  lock  her  up.' 

'And  would  you  stay  with  her  yourself?' 

'Yes,  I  should  certainly  stay  with  her 
myself 

'Very  good.  Well,  but  if  she  got  sick  of 
that,  and  she  deceived  you  ?  ' 

'  I  should  kill  her.' 

'  And  if  she  ran  away  ? ' 

*  I  should  catch  her  up  and  kill  her  all  the 
same.' 

'  Oh.     And  suppose  now  I  were  your  wife, 
what  would  you  do  then  ? ' 
316 


FIRST   LOVE 

Byelovzorov  was  silent  a  minute.  '  I  should 
kill  myself.  .  .  .' 

Zinaida  laughed.  '  I  see  yours  is  not  a  long 
story.' 

The  next  forfeit  was  Zinaida's.  She  looked 
at  the  ceiling  and  considered.  '  Well,  listen, 
she  began  at  last,  *  what  I  have  thought  of.  .  .  . 
Picture  to  yourselves  a  magnificent  palace,  a 
summer  night,  and  a  marvellous  ball.  This 
ball  is  given  by  a  young  queen.  Everywhere 
gold  and  marble,  crystal,  silk,  lights,  diamonds, 
flowers,  fragrant  scents,  every  caprice  of  luxury.' 

*  You  love  luxury  ?  '  Lushin  interposed. 

'  Luxury  is  beautiful,'  she  retorted  ;  '  I  love 
everything  beautiful.' 

'  More  than  what  is  noble  ? '  he  asked. 

'That's  something  clever,  I  don't  understand 
it.  Don't  interrupt  me.  So  the  ball  is  magni- 
ficent. There  are  crowds  of  guests,  all  of  them 
are  young,  handsome,  and  brave,  all  are  franti- 
cally in  love  with  the  queen.' 

'  Are  there  no  women  among  the  guests  ? ' 
queried  Malevsky. 

*  No — or  wait  a  minute — yes,  there  are  some.' 
'  Are  they  all  ugly  ?  ' 

'  No,  charming.  But  the  men  are  all  in  love 
with  the  queen.  She  is  tall  and  graceful ;  she 
has  a  little  gold  diadem  on  her  black  hair.' 

I  looked  at  Zinaida,  and  at  that  instant  she 
317 


FIRST   LOVE 

seemed  to  me  so  much  above  all  of  us,  there 
was  such  bright  intelligence,  and  such  power 
about    her   unruffled   brows,   that    I    thought : 

*  You  are  that  queen  ! ' 

*They  all  throng  about  her,'  Zinaida  went  on, 

*  and  all  lavish  the  most  flattering  speeches 
upon  her.' 

'  And  she  likes  flattery  ? '  Lushin  queried. 

*  What  an  intolerable  person  !  he  keeps  inter- 
rupting .  .  .  who  doesn't  like  flattery  ? ' 

'  One  more  last  question,'  observed  Malevsky, 
'  has  the  queen  a  husband  ? ' 

'  I  hadn't  thought  about  that.  No,  why 
should  she  have  a  husband  ?  ' 

'  To  be  sure,'  assented  Malevsky,  *  why  should 
she  have  a  husband  ? ' 

^Silence!'  cried  Meidanov  in  French,  which 
he  spoke  very  badly. 

^  Merci  !'  Zinaida  said  to  him.  'And  so  the 
queen  hears  their  speeches,  and  hears  the  music, 
but  does  not  look  at  one  of  the  guests.  Six 
windows  are  open  from  top  to  bottom,  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  and  beyond  them  is  a  dark  sky 
with  big  stars,  a  dark  garden  with  big  trees. 
The  queen  gazes  out  into  the  garden.  Out 
there  among  the  trees  is  a  fountain  ;  it  is  white 
in  the  darkness,  and  rises  up  tall,  tall  as  an 
apparition.  The  queen  hears,  through  the  talk 
and  the  music,  the  soft  splash  of  its  waters. 
318 


FIRST  LOVE  \^ 

She  gazes  and  thinks  :  you  are  all,  gentlemen, 
noble,  clever,  and  rich,  you  crowd  round  me, 
you  treasure  every  word  I  utter,  you  are  all 
ready  to  die  at  my  feet,  I  hold  you  in  my 
power  .  .  .  but  out  there,  by  the  fountain,  by 
that  splashing  water,  stands  and  waits  he  whom 
I  love,  who  holds  me  in  his  power.  He  has 
neither  rich  raiment  nor  precious  stones,  no 
one  knows  him,  but  he  awaits  me,  and  is  cer- 
tain I  shall  come — and  I  shall  come — and  there 
is  no  power  that  could  stop  me  when  I  want  to 
go  out  to  him,  and  to  stay  with  him,  and  be 
lost  with  him  out  there  in  the  darkness  of  the 
garden,  under  the  whispering  of  the  trees,  and 
the  splash  of  the  fountain  .  .  .'  Zinaida  ceased. 

'Is  that  a  made-up  story?'  Malevsky  in- 
quired slyly.     Zinaida  did  not  even  look  at  him. 

*  And  what  should  we  have  done,  gentlemen  ?' 
Lushin  began  suddenly, '  if  we  had  been  among 
the  guests,  and  had  known  of  the  lucky  fellow 
at  the  fountain  ? ' 

'  Stop  a  minute,  stop  a  minute,'  interposed 
Zuiaida,  '  I  will  tell  you  myself  what  each  of 
you  would  have  done.  You,  Byelovzorov, 
would  have  challenged  him  to  a  duel ;  you, 
Meidanov,  would  have  written  an  epigram  on 
him.  .  .  .  No,  though,  you  can't  write  epi- 
grams, you  would  have  made  up  a  long  poem 
on  him  in  the  style  of  Barbier,  and  would  have 
319 


FIRST  LOVE 

inserted  your  production  in  the  Telegraph.    You, 
Nirmatsky,  would  have  borrowed  ...  no,  you 
would  have  lent  him  money  at  high  interest ; 
I  you,  doctor,  .  .  .'  she  stopped.     '  There,  I  really 
'    don't  know  what  you  would  have  done.  .  .  .' 

'  In  the  capacity  of  court  physician/  answered 
Lushin, '  I  would  have  advised  the  queen  not  to 
give  balls  when  she  was  not  in  the  humour  for 
entertaining  her  guests.  .  .  .' 

'•  Perhaps  you  would  have  been  right.  And 
you,  Count  ?  .  .  .' 

'  And  I  ? '  repeated  Malevsky  with  his  evil 
smile.  .  .  . 

*  You  would  offer  him  a  poisoned  sweetmeat.' 

Malevsky's  face  changed  slightly,  and  as- 
sumed for  an  instant  a  Jewish  expression,  but 
he  laughed  directly. 

'  And  as  for  you,  Voldemar,  .  .  .'  Zinaida 
went  on,  '  but  that 's  enough,  though  ;  let  us 
play  another  game.' 

'  M'sieu  Voldemar,  as  the  queen's  page,  would 
have  held  up  her  train  when  she  ran  into  the 
garden,'  Malevsky  remarked  malignantly. 

I    was    crimson    with    anger,   but    Zinaida 
hurriedly  laid  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  get- 
ting up,  said  in  a  rather  shaky  voice  :  '  I  have 
never   given  your  excellency  the  right  to   be 
y     rude,  and  therefore  I  will  ask  you  to  leave  us.' 
\    She  pointed  to  the  door. 

320 


FIRST  LOVE 

'  Upon  my  word,  princess,'  muttered  Malev- 
sky,  and  he  turned  quite  pale. 

'  The  princess  is  right,'  cried  Byelovzorov, 
and  he  too  rose. 

'  Good  God,  I  'd  not  the  least  idea,'  Malevsky 
went  on,  *  in  my  words  there  was  nothing,  I 
think,  that  could  .  .  .  I  had  no  notion  of  offend- 
ing you.  .  .  .     Forgive  me.' 

Zinaida  looked  him  up  and  down  coldly,  and 
coldly  smiled.  *  Stay,  then,  certainly,'  she  pro- 
nounced with  a  careless  gesture  of  her  arm. 
'  M'sieu  Voldemar  and  I  were  needlessly  in- 
censed. It  is  your  pleasure  to  sting  .  .  .  may 
it  do  you  good.' 

'  Forgive  me,'  Malevsky  repeated  once  more  ; 
while  I,  my  thoughts  dwelling  on  Zinaida's 
gesture,  said  to  myself  again  that  no  real  queen 
could  with  greater  dignity  have  shown  a  pre- 
sumptuous subject  to  the  door. 

The  game  of  forfeits  went  on  for  a  short  time 
after  this  little  scene ;  every  one  felt  rather  ill 
at  ease,  not  so  much  on  account  of  this  scene, 
as  from  another,  not  quite  definite,  but  oppres- 
sive feeling.  No  one  spoke  of  it,  but  every  one 
was  conscious  of  it  in  himself  and  in  his 
neighbour.  Meidanov  read  us  his  verses  ; 
and  Malevsky  praised  them  with  exaggerated 
warmth.  *  He  wants  to  show  how  good  he  is 
now,'  Lushin  whispered  to  me.  We  soon  broke 
X  321 


FIRST   LOVE 

up.  A  mood  of  reverie  seemed  to  have  come 
upon  Zinaida ;  the  old  princess  sent  word  that 
she  had  a  headache  ;  Nirmatsky  began  to  com- 
plain of  his  rheumatism.  .  .  . 

I  could  not  for  a  long  while  get  to  sleep.  I 
had  been  impressed  by  Zinaida's  story.  *  Can 
there  have  been  a  hint  in  it?'  I  asked  myself: 
'and  at  whom  and  at  what  was  she  hinting? 
And  if  there  really  is  anything  to  hint  at  .  .  . 
how  is  one  to  make  up  one's  mind  ?  No,  no,  it 
can't  be,'  I  whispered,  turning  over  from  one  hot 
cheek  on  to  the  other.  .  .  .  But  I  remembered 
the  expression  of  Zinaida's  face  during  her 
story.  ...  I  remembered  the  exclamation 
that  had  broken  from  Lushin  in  the  Nes- 
kutchny  gardens,  the  sudden  change  in  her 
behaviour  to  me,  and  I  was  lost  in  conjectures. 
'  Who  is  he  ? '  These  three  words  seemed  to 
stand  before  my  eyes  traced  upon  the  darkness  ; 
a  lowering  malignant  cloud  seemed  hanging 
over  me,  and  I  felt  its  oppressiveness,  and 
waited  for  it  to  break.  I  had  grown  used  to 
many  things  of  late  ;  I  had  learned  much  from 
what  I  had  seen  at  the  Zasyckins  ;  their  dis- 
orderly ways,  tallow  candle-ends,  broken  knives 
and  forks,  grumpy  Vonifaty,  and  shabby  maid- 
servants, the  manners  of  the  old  princess — all 
their  strange  mode  of  life  no  longer  struck  me. 
.  .  .     But  what  I  was  dimly  discerning  now  in 


FIRST   LOVE 

Zinaida,  I  could  never  get  used  to.  .  .  .  *  An 
adventuress  ! '  my  mother  had  said  of  her  one 
day.  An  adventuress  —  she,  my  idol,  my 
divinity?  This  word  stabbed  me,  I  tried  to 
get  away  from  it  into  my  pillow,  I  was  indig- 
nant— and  at  the  same  time  what  would  I  not 
have  agreed  to,  what  would  I  not  have  given 
only  to  be  that  lucky  fellow  at  the  fountain  !  .  .  . 
My  blood  was  on  fire  and  boiling  within  me. 
'The  garden  .  .»-.  the  fountain,'  I  mused.  .  .  . 
*  I  will  go  into  the  garden.'  I  dressed  quickly 
and  slipped  out  of  the  house.  The  night  was 
dark,  the  trees  scarcely  whispered,  a  soft  chill 
air  breathed  down  from  the  sky,  a  smell  of 
fennel  trailed  across  from  the  kitchen  garden. 
I  went  through  all  the  walks  ;  the  light  sound 
of  my  own  footsteps  at  once  confused  and 
emboldened  me;  I  stood  still,  waited  and  heard 
my  heart  beating  fast  and  loudly.  At  last  I 
went  up  to  the  fence  and  leaned  against  the 
thin  bar.  Suddenly,  or  was  it  my  fancy,  a 
woman's  figure  flashed  by,  a  few  paces  from 
me  ...  I  strained  my  eyes  eagerly  into 
the  darkness,  I  held  my  breath.  What  was 
that?  Did  I  hear  steps,  or  was  it  my  heart 
beating  again?  'Who  is  here?'  I  faltered, 
hardly  audibly.  What  was  that  again,  a 
smothered  laugh  ...  or  a  rustling  in  the 
leaves  ...  or  a  sigh  just  at  my  ear?  I  felt 
323 


FIRST  LOVE 

afraid  ...  *  Who   is   here  ? '    I   repeated  still 
more  softly. 

The  air  blew  in  a  gust  for  an  instant ;  a 
streak  of  fire  flashed  across  the  sky ;  it  was  a 
star  falling.  *  Zinai'da  ? '  I  wanted  to  call,  but 
the  word  died  away  on  my  lips.  And  all  at 
once  everything  became  profoundly  still  around, 
as  is  often  the  case  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
.  .  .  Even  the  grasshoppers  ceased  their  churr 
in  the  trees — only  a  window  rattled  somewhere. 
I  stood  and  stood,  and  then  went  back  to  my 
room,  to  my  chilled  bed.  I  felt  a  strange  sen- 
sation ;  as  though  I  had  gone  to  a  tryst,  and 
had  been  left  lonely,  and  had  passed  close  by 
another's  happiness. 


XVII 

The  following  day  I  only  had  a  passing 
glimpse  of  Zinaida :  she  was  driving  some- 
where with  the  old  princess  in  a  cab.  But  I 
saw  Lushin,  who,  however,  barely  vouchsafed 
me  a  greeting,  and  Malevsky.  The  young 
count  grinned,  and  began  affably  talking  to 
me.  Of  all  those  who  visited  at  the  lodge,  he 
alone  had  succeeded  in  forcing  his  way  into 
our  house,  and  had  favourably  impressed  my 
324 


FIRST   LOVE 

mother.  My  father  did  not  take  to  him,  and 
treated  him  with  a  civility  almost  insulting. 

'  Ah,  monsieur  le  page',  began  Malevsky, 
'delighted  to  meet  you.  What  is  your  lovely 
queen  doing  ? ' 

His  fresh  handsome  face  was  so  detestable 
to  me  at  that  moment,  and  he  looked  at  me 
with  such  contemptuous  amusement  that  I  did 
not  answer  him  at  all. 

*  Are  you  still  angry  ?  '  he  went  on.  '  You  've 
no  reason  to  be.  It  wasn't  I  who  called  you  a 
page,  you  know,  and  pages  attend  queens 
especially.  But  allow  me  to  remark  that  you 
perform  your  duties  very  badly.' 

*  How  so  ? ' 

'  Pages  ought  to  be  inseparable  from  their 
mistresses  ;  pages  ought  to  know  everything 
they  do,  they  ought,  indeed,  to  watch  over  them,' 
he  added,  lowering  his  voice,  '  day  and  night.' 

*  What  do  you  mean  .'' ' 

'  What  do  I  mean  ?  I  express  myself  pretty 
clearly,  I  fancy.  Day  and  night.  By  day  it 's 
not  so  much  matter ;  it 's  light,  and  people 
are  about  in  the  daytime  ;  but  by  night,  then 
look  out  for  misfortune.  I  advise  you  not  to 
sleep  at  nights  and  to  watch,  watch  with  all 
your  energies.  You  remember,  in  the  garden, 
by  night,  at  the  fountain,  that 's  where  there's 
need  to  look  out.  You  will  thank  me.' 
325 


FIRST    LOVE 

Malevsky  laughed  and  turned  his  back  on  me. 
He,  most  likely,  attached  no  great  importance 
to  what  he  had  said  to  me,  he  had  a  reputation 
for  mystifying,  and  was  noted  for  his  power  of 
taking  people  in  at  masquerades,  which  was 
greatly  augmented  by  the  almost  unconscious 
falsity  in  which  his  whole  nature  was  steeped. 
.  .  .  He  only  wanted  to  tease  me ;  but  every 
word  he  uttered  was  a  poison  that  ran  through 
my  veins.  The  blood  rushed  to  my  head. 
'Ah!  so  that's  it ! '  I  said  to  myself;  'good! 
So  there  was  reason  for  me  to  feel  drawn  into 
the  garden  !  That  shan't  be  so  ! '  I  cried  aloud, 
and  struck  myself  on  the  chest  with  my  fist, 
though  precisely  what  should  not  be  so  I  could 
not  have  said.  '  Whether  Malevsky  himself 
goes  into  the  garden,'  I  thought  (he  was  brag- 
ging, perhaps ;  he  has  insolence  enough  for 
that), '  or  some  one  else  (the  fence  of  our  garden 
was  very  low,  and  there  was  no  difficulty  in 
getting  over  it),  anyway,  if  any  one  falls  into 
my  hands,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  him  !  I  don't 
advise  any  one  to  meet  me !  I  will  prove  to 
all  the  world  and  to  her,  the  traitress  (I  actually 
used  the  word  'traitress')  that  I  can  be  revenged ! 

I  returned  to  my  own  room,  took  out  of  the 

writing-table  an  English  knife  I  had  recently 

bought,  felt  its  sharp  edge,  and   knitting  my 

brows  with  an   air  of  cold  and  concentrated 

326 


FIRST  LOVE 

determination,  thrust  it  into  my  pocket,  as 
though  doing  such  deeds  was  nothing  out  of 
the  way  for  me,  and  not  the  first  time.  My 
heart  heaved  angrily,  and  felt  heavy  as  a  stone. 
All  day  long  I  kept  a  scowling  brow  and  lips 
tightly  compressed,  and  was  continually  walking 
up  and  down,  clutching,  with  my  hand  in  my 
pocket,  the  knife,  which  was  warm  from  my 
grasp,  while  I  prepared  myself  beforehand  for 
something  terrible.  These  new  unknown  sen- 
sations so  occupied  and  even  delighted  me, 
that  I  hardly  thought  of  Zinaida  herself.  I 
was  continually  haunted  by  Aleko,  the  young 
gipsy — '  Where  art  thou  going,  young  hand- 
some man  ?  Lie  there,'  and  then, '  thou  art  all 
besprent  with  blood,  .  .  .  Oh,  what  hast  thou 
done  ?  .  .  .  Naught ! '  With  what  a  cruel  smile 
I  repeated  that  'Naught!'  My  father  was  not  at 
home ;  but  my  mother,  who  had  for  some  time 
past  been  in  an  almost  continual  state  of  dumb 
exasperation,  noticed  my  gloomy  and  heroic 
aspect,  and  said  to  me  at  supper,  '  Why  are 
you  sulking  like  a  mouse  in  a  meal-tub?'  I 
merely  smiled  condescendingly  in  reply,  and 
thought, '  If  only  they  knew  1'  It  struck  eleven ; 
I  went  to  my  room,  but  did  not  undress ;  I 
waited  for  midnight ;  at  last  it  struck.  *  The 
time  has  come!'  I  muttered  between  my  teeth; 
and  buttoning  myself  up  to  the  throat,  and 
327 


FIRST   LOVE 

even  pulling  my  sleeves  up,  I  went  into  the 
garden. 

I  had  already  fixed  on  the  spot  from  which 
to  keep  watch.  At  the  end  of  the  garden,  at 
the  point  where  the  fence,  separating  our  domain 
from  the  Zasyekins,'  joined  the  common  wall, 
grew  a  pine-tree,  standing  alone.  Standing 
under  its  low  thick  branches,  I  could  see  well, 
as  far  as  the  darkness  of  the  night  permitted, 
what  took  place  around.  Close  by,  ran  a 
winding  path  which  had  always  seemed  mys- 
terious to  me  ;  it  coiled  like  a  snake  under  the 
fence,  which  at  that  point  bore  traces  of  having 
been  climbed  over,  and  led  to  a  round  arbour 
formed  of  thick  acacias.  I  made  my  way  to 
the  pine-tree,  leaned  my  back  against  its  trunk, 
and  began  my  watch. 

The  night  was  as  still  as  the  night  before, 
but  there  were  fewer  clouds  in  the  sky,  and  the 
outlines  of  bushes,  even  of  tall  flowers,  could  be 
more  distinctly  seen.  The  first  moments  of 
expectation  were  oppressive,  almost  terrible. 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  everything.  I 
only  debated  how  to  act  ;  whether  to  thunder, 
*  Where  goest  thou  ?  Stand  !  show  thyself — 
or  death  ! '  or  simply  to  strike.  .  .  .  Every 
sound,  every  whisper  and  rustle,  seemed  to  me 
portentous  and  extraordinary.  ...  I  prepared 
myself  ...  I  bent  forward.  .  .  .  But  half-an- 
328 


FIRST  LOVE 

hour  passed,  an  hour  passed  ;  my  blood  had 
grown  quieter,  colder  ;  the  consciousness  that 
I  was  doing  all  this  for  nothing,  that  I  was 
even  a  little  absurd,  that  IMalcvsky  had  been 
making  fun  of  me,  began  to  steal  over  me.  I 
left  my  ambush,  and  walked  all  about  the 
garden.  As  if  to  taunt  me,  there  was  not  the 
smallest  sound  to  be  heard  anywhere  ;  every- 
thing was  at  rest.  Even  our  dog  was  asleep, 
curled  up  into  a  ball  at  the  gate.  I  climbed  up 
into  the  ruins  of  the  greenhouse,  saw  the  open 
country  far  away  before  me,  recalled  my  meet- 
ing with  Zinaida,  and  fell  to  dreaming.  .  .  . 

I  started.  ...  I  fancied  I  heard  the  creak  of 
a  door  opening,  then  the  faint  crack  of  a 
broken  twig.  In  two  bounds  I  got  down  from 
the  ruin,  and  stood  still,  all  aghast.  Rapid, 
light,  but  cautious  footsteps  sounded  distinctly 
in  the  garden.  They  were  approaching  me. 
'  Here  he  is  .  .  .  here  he  is,  at  last  ! '  flashed 
through  my  heart.  With  spasmodic  haste,  I 
pulled  the  knife  out  of  my  pocket  ;  with  spas- 
modic haste,  I  opened  it.  Flashes  of  red  were 
whirling  before  my  eyes  ;  my  hair  stood  up  on 
my  head  in  my  fear  and  fury.  .  .  .  The  steps 
were  coming  straight  towards  me  ;  I  bent — I 
craned  forward  to  meet  him.  ...  A  man  came 
into  view.  .  .  .  My  God  !  it  was  my  father  ! 

I  recognised  him  at  once,  though  he  was  all 
329 


FIRST   LOVE 

muffled  up  in  a  dark  cloak,  and  his  hat  was 
pulled  down  over  his  face.  On  tip-toe  he 
walked  by.  He  did  not  notice  me,  though 
nothing  concealed  me ;  but  I  was  so  huddled 
up  and  shrunk  together  that  I  fancy  I  was 
almost  on  the  level  of  the  ground.  The  jealous 
Othello,  ready  for  murder,  was  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  a  school-boy.  ...  I  was  so  taken 
aback  by  my  father's  unexpected  appearance 
that  for  the  first  moment  I  did  not  notice 
where  he  had  come  from  or  in  what  direction 
he  disappeared.  I  only  drew  myself  up,  and 
thought,  '  Why  is  it  my  father  is  walking 
about  in  the  garden  at  night  ? '  when  everything 
was  still  again.  In  my  horror  I  had  dropped 
my  knife  in  the  grass,  but  I  did  not  even 
attempt  to  look  for  it  ;  I  was  very  much 
ashamed  of  myself  I  was  completely  sobered 
at  once.  On  my  way  to  the  house,  however, 
I  went  up  to  my  seat  under  the  elder-tree,  and 
looked  up  at  Zinaida's  window.  The  small 
slightly-convex  panes  of  the  window  shone 
dimly  blue  in  the  faint  light  thrown  on  them 
by  the  night  sky.  All  at  once — their  colour 
began  to  change.  .  .  .  Behind  them — I  saw 
this,  saw  it  distinctly — softly  and  cautiously  a 
white  blind  was  let  down,  let  down  right  to  the 
window-frame,  and  so  stayed. 

*  What   is   that   for  ? '   I    said    aloud    almost 
330 


FIRST  LOVE 

involuntarily  when  I  found  myself  once  more 
in  my  room.  '  A  dream,  a  chance,  or  .  .  .' 
The  suppositions  which  suddenly  rushed  into 
my  head  were  so  new  and  strange  that  I  did 
not  dare  to  entertain  them. 

XVIII 

I  GOT  up  in  the  morning  with  a  headache.  My 
emotion  of  the  previous  day  had  vanished.  It 
was  replaced  by  a  dreary  sense  of  blankness 
and  a  sort  of  sadness  I  had  not  known  till  then, 
as  though  something  had  died  in  me. 

'  Why  is  it  you  're  looking  like  a  rabbit  with 
half  its  brain  removed  ? '  said  Lushin  on  meet- 
ing me.  At  lunch  I  stole  a  look  first  at  my 
father,  then  at  my  mother :  he  was  composed, 
as  usual  ;  she  was,  as  usual,  secretly  irritated. 
I  waited  to  see  whether  my  father  would  make 
some  friendly  remarks  to  me,  as  he  sometimes 
did.  .  .  .  But  he  did  not  even  bestow  his  every- 
day cold  greeting  upon  me.  '  Shall  I  tell 
Zinaida  all  ? '  I  wondered.  .  .  .  '  It's  all  the 
same,  anyway  ;  all  is  at  an  end  between  us.'  I 
went  to  see  her,  but  told  her  nothing,  and,  indeed, 
I  could  not  even  have  managed  to  get  a  talk 
with  her  if  I  had  wanted  to.  The  old  princess's 
son,  a  cadet  of  twelve  years  old,  had  come 
from  Petersburg  for  his  holidays ;  Zinaida  at 
331 


FIRST  LOVE 

once  handed  her  brother  over  to  me.  '  Here/ 
she  said, '  my  dear  Volodya/ — it  was  the  first 
time  she  had  used  this  pet-name  to  me — *  is  a 
companion  for  you.  His  name  is  Volodya,  too. 
Please,  like  him  ;  he  is  still  shy,  but  he  has  a 
good  heart.  Show  him  Neskutchny  gardens, 
go  walks  with  him,  take  him  under  your  pro- 
tection. You  '11  do  that,  won't  you  ?  you  're  so 
good,  too ! '  She  laid  both  her  hands  affection- 
ately on  my  shoulders,  and  I  was  utterly  be- 
wildered. The  presence  of  this  boy  transformed 
me,  too,  into  a  boy.  I  looked  in  silence  at  the 
cadet,  who  stared  as  silently  at  me.  Zinaida 
laughed,  and  pushed  us  towards  each  other. 
'  Embrace  each  other,  children  ! '  We  embraced 
each  other.  *  Would  you  like  me  to  show  you 
the  garden  ?  '  I  inquired  of  the  cadet.  *  If  you 
please,'  he  replied,  in  the  regular  cadet's  hoarse 
voice.  Zinaida  laughed  again.  ...  I  had  time 
to  notice  that  she  had  never  had  such  an 
exquisite  colour  in  her  face  before.  I  set  off 
with  the  cadet.  There  was  an  old-fashioned 
swing  in  our  garden.  I  sat  him  down  on  the 
narrow  plank  seat,  and  began  swinging  him. 
He  sat  rigid  in  his  new  little  uniform  of  stout 
cloth,  with  its  broad  gold  braiding,  and  kept 
tight  hold  of  the  cords.  '  You  'd  better  un- 
button your  collar,'  I  said  to  him.  '  It 's  all 
right  ;  we  're  used  to  it,'  he  said,  and  cleared 
332 


FIRST   LOVE    ▼ 

his  throat.  He  was  like  his  sister.  The  eyes 
especially  recalled  her.  I  liked  being  nice  to 
him  ;  and  at  the  same  time  an  aching  sadness 
was  gnawing  at  my  heart.  '  Now  I  certainly 
am  a  child/  I  thought  ;  *  but  yesterday.  .  .  .' 
I  remembered  where  I  had  dropped  my  knife 
the  night  before,  and  looked  for  it.  The  cadet 
asked  me  for  it,  picked  a  thick  stalk  of  wild 
parsley,  cut  a  pipe  out  of  it,  and  began  whist- 
ling.    Othello  whistled  too. 

But  in  the  evening  how  he  wept,  this  Othello, 
in  Zinaida's  arms,  when,  seeking  him  out  in  a 
corner  of  the  garden,  she  asked  him  why  he 
was  so  depressed.  My  tears  flowed  with  such 
violence  that  she  was  frightened.  '  What  is 
wrong  with  you  ?  What  is  it,  Volodya  ?  '  she 
repeated  ;  and  seeing  I  made  no  answer,  and 
did  not  cease  weeping,  she  was  about  to  kiss  my 
wet  cheek.  But  I  turned  away  from  her,  and 
whispered  through  my  sobs,  *  I  know  all.  Why 
did  you  play  with  me  ?  .  .  .  What  need  had  you 
of  my  love  ?  ' 

'  I  am  to  blame,  Volodya  .  .  .'  said  Zinaida. 
*  I  am  very  much  to  blame  .  .  .'  she  added, 
wringing  her  hands.  '  How  much  there  is  bad 
and  black  and  sinful  in  me  !  .  .  .  But  I  am  not 
playing  with  you  now.  I  love  you  ;  you  don't 
even  suspect  why  and  how.  .  .  .  But  what  is  it 
you  know  ? ' 

33^ 


^  FIRST   LOVE 

What  could  I  say  to  her  ?  She  stood  facing 
me,  and  looked  at  me  ;  and  I  belonged  to  her 
altogether  from  head  to  foot  directly  she  looked 
at  me.  ...  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  was 
running  races  with  the  cadet  and  Zinaida.  I 
was  not  crying,  I  was  laughing,  though  my 
swollen  eyelids  dropped  a  tear  or  two  as  I 
laughed.  I  had  Zinaida's  ribbon  round  my 
neck  for  a  cravat,  and  I  shouted  with  delight 
whenever  I  succeeded  in  catching  her  round 
the  waist.     She  did  just  as  she  liked  with  me. 


XIX 

I  SHOULD  be  in  a  great  difficulty,  if  I  were 
forced  to  describe  exactly  what  passed  within 
me  in  the  course  of  the  week  after  my  unsuc- 
cessful midnight  expedition.  It  was  a  strange 
feverish  time,  a  sort  of  chaos,  in  which  the 
most  violently  opposed  feelings,  thoughts,  sus- 
picions, hopes,  joys,  and  sufferings,  whirled 
together  in  a  kind  of  hurricane.  I  was  afraid 
to  look  into  myself,  if  a  boy  of  sixteen  ever  can 
look  into  himself;  I  was  afraid  to  take  stock  of 
anything  ;  I  simply  hastened  to  live  through 
every  day  till  evening  ;  and  at  night  I  slept 
.  .  .  the  light-heartedness  of  childhood  came  to 
my  aid.  I  did  not  want  to  know  whether  I  was 
334 


FIRST   LOVE  W 

loved,  and  I  did  not  want  to  acknowledge  to 
myself  that  I  was  not  loved  ;  my  father  I 
avoided — but  Zinaida  I  could  not  avoid.  .  .  . 
I  burnt  as  in  a  fire  in  her  presence  .  .  .  but 
what  did  I  care  to  know  what  the  fire  was  in 
which  I  burned  and  melted — it  was  enough  that 
it  was  sweet  to  burn  and  melt.  I  gave  myself 
up  to  all  my  passing  sensations,  and  cheated 
myself,  turning  away  from  memories,  and 
shutting  my  eyes  to  what  I  foreboded  before 
me.  .  .  .  This  weakness  would  not  most  likely 
have  lasted  long  in  any  case  ...  a  thunderbolt 
cut  it  all  short  in  a  moment,  and  flung  me  into 
a  new  track  altogether. 

Coming  in  one  day  to  dinner  from  a  rather 
long  walk,  I  learnt  with  amazement  that  I  was 
to  dine  alone,  that  my  father  had  gone  away 
and  my  mother  was  unwell,  did  not  want  any 
dinner,  and  had  shut  herself  up  in  her  bed- 
room. From  the  faces  of  the  footmen,  I 
surmised  that  something  extraordinary  had 
taken  place.  ...  I  did  not  dare  to  cross- 
examine  them,  but  I  had  a  friend  in  the  young 
waiter  Philip,  who  was  passionately  fond  of 
poetry,  and  a  performer  on  the  guitar.  I 
addressed  myself  to  him.  From  him  I  learned 
that  a  terrible  scene  had  taken  place  between 
my  father  and  mother  (and  every  word  had 
been  overheard  in  the  maids'  room ;  much  of  it 
335 


FIRST   LOVE 

had  been  in  French,  but  Masha  the  lady's-maid 
had  lived  five  years'  with  a  dressmaker  from 
Paris,  and  she  understood  it  all) ;  that  my 
mother  had  reproached  my  father  with  infidelity, 
with  an  intimacy  with  the  young  lady  next 
door,  that  my  father  at  first  had  defended  him- 
self, but  afterwards  had  lost  his  temper,  and  he 
too  had  said  something  cruel, '  reflecting  on  her 
age,'  which  had  made  my  mother  cry ;  that  my 
mother  too  had  alluded  to  some  loan  which  it 
seemed  had  been  made  to  the  old  princess, 
and  had  spoken  very  ill  of  her  and  of  the  young 
lady  too,  and  that  then  my  father  had  threatened 
her.  '  And  all  the  mischief,'  continued  Philip, 
*  came  from  an  anonymous  letter ;  and  who 
wrote  it,  no  one  knows,  or  else  there  'd  have 
been  no  reason  whatever  for  the  matter  to  have 
come  out  at  all.' 

*  But  was  there  really  any  ground,'  I  brought 
out  with  difficulty,  while  my  hands  and  feet 
went  cold,  and  a  sort  of  shudder  ran  through 
my  inmost  being. 

Philip  winked  meaningly.  'There  was. 
There 's  no  hiding  those  things  ;  for  all  that 
your  father  was  careful  this  time — but  there, 
you  see,  he  'd,  for  instance,  to  hire  a  carriage  or 
something  ...  no  getting  on  without  servants, 
either.' 

I  dismissed  Philip,  and  fell  on  to  my  bed.  I 
336 


FIRST   LOVE 

did  not  sob,  I  did  not  give  myself  up  to  despair  ; 
I  did  not  ask  myself  when  and  how  this  had 
happened  ;  I  did  not  wonder  how  it  was  I  had 
not  guessed  it  before,  long  ago ;  I  did  not  even 
upbraid  my  father.  .  .  .  What  I  had  learnt  was 
more  than  I  could  take  in  ;  this  sudden  revela- 
tion stunned  me.  .  .  .  All  was  at  an  end.  All 
the  fair  blossoms  of  my  heart  were  roughly 
plucked  at  once,  and  lay  about  me,  flung  on  the 
ground,  and  trampled  underfoot. 


XX 


My  mother  next  day  announced  her  intention 
of  returning  to  the  town.  In  the  morning  my 
father  had  gone  into  her  bedroom,  and  stayed 
there  a  long  while  alone  with  her.  No  one  had 
overheard  what  he  said  to  her ;  but  my  mother 
wept  no  more ;  she  regained  her  composure, 
and  asked  for  food,  but  did  not  make  her 
appearance  nor  change  her  plans.  I  remember 
I  wandered  about  the  whole  day,  but  did  not  go 
into  the  garden,  and  never  once  glanced  at  the 
lodge,  and  in  the  evening  I  was  the  spectator 
of  an  amazing  occurrence :  my  father  con- 
ducted Count  Malevsky  by  the  arm  through  the 
dining-room  into  the  hall,  and,  in  the  presence 
of  a  footman,  said  icily  to  him  :  '  A  few  days 

Y  3^7 


FIRST   LOVE 

ago  your  excellency  was  shown  the  door  in  our 
house  ;  and  now  I  am  not  going  to  enter  into 
any  kind  of  explanation  with  you,  but  I  have 
the  honour  to  announce  to  you  that  if  you  ever 
visit  me  again, I  shall  throw  you  out  of  window. 
I  don't  like  your  handwriting.'  The  count 
bowed,  bit  his  lips,  shrank  away,  and  vanished. 
Preparations  were  beginning  for  our  removal 
to  town,  to  Arbaty  Street,  where  we  had  a 
house.  My  father  himself  probably  no  longer 
cared  to  remain  at  the  country  house;  but  clearly 
he  had  succeeded  in  persuading  my  mother  not 
to  make  a  public  scandal.  Everything  was 
done  quietly,  without  hurry ;  my  mother  even 
sent  her  compliments  to  the  old  princess,  and 
expressed  her  regret  that  she  was  prevented  by 
indisposition  from  seeing  her  again  before  her 
departure.  I  wandered  about  like  one  pos- 
sessed, and  only  longed  for  one  thing,  for  it  all 
to  be  over  as  soon  as  possible.  One  thought 
I  could  not  get  out  of  my  head  :  how  could  she, 
a  young  girl,  and  a  princess  too,  after  all,  bring 
herself  to  such  a  step,  knowing  that  my  father 
was  not  a  free  man,  and  having  an  opportunity 
of  marrying,  for  instance,  Byelovzorov?  What 
did  she  hope  for  ?  How  was  it  she  was  not 
afraid  of  ruining  her  whole  future?  Yes,  I 
thought,  this  is  love,  this  is  passion,  this  is 
devotion  .  .  .  and  Lushin's  words  came  back 
338 


FIRST  LOVE 

to  me  :  to  sacrifice  oneself  for  some  people  is 
sweet.  I  chanced  somehow  to  catch  sight  of 
something  white  in  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
lodge.  .  .  .  '  Can  it  be  Zinaida's  face  ? '  I 
thought  .  .  .  yes,  it  really  was  her  face. 
I  could  not  restrain  myself.  I  could  not  part 
from  her  without  saying  a  last  good-bye  to 
her.  I  seized  a  favourable  instant,  and  went 
into  the  lodge. 

In  the  drawing-room  the  old  princess  met  me 
with  her  usual  slovenly  and  careless  greetings. 

*  How 's  this,  my  good  man,  your  folks  are  off 
in  such  a  hurry  ? '  she  observed,  thrusting  snuff 
into  her  nose.  I  looked  at  her,  and  a  load  was 
taken  off  my  heart.  The  word  *  loan,'  dropped 
by  Philip,  had  been  torturing  me.  She  had  no 
suspicion  ...  at  least  I  thought  so  then. 
Zinaida  came  in  from  the  next  room,  pale,  and 
dressed  in  black,  with  her  hair  hanging  loose  ; 
she  took  me  by  the  hand  without  a  word,  and 
drew  me  away  with  her. 

'  I  heard  your  voice,'  she  began,  '  and  came 
out  at  once.  Is  it  so  easy  for  you  to  leave  us, 
bad  boy  ? ' 

'  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye  to  you, 
princess,'  I  answered,  '  probably  for  ever.  You 
have  heard,  perhaps,  we  are  going  away.' 

Zinaida  looked  intently  at  me. 

'Yes,  I  have  heard.     Thanks  for  coming.     I 
339 


FIRST   LOVE 

was  beginning  to  think  I  should  not  see  you 
again.  Don't  remember  evil  against  me.  I 
have  sometimes  tormented  you,  but  all  the 
same  I  am  not  what  you  imagine  me.' 

She  turned  away,  and  leaned  against  the 
window. 

'Really,  I  am  not  like  that.  I  know  you 
have  a  bad  opinion  of  me.' 

'  Yes,  you  .  .  .  you.' 

*  I  ? '  I  repeated  mournfully,  and  my  heart 
throbbed  as  of  old  under  the  influence  of  her 
overpowering,  indescribable  fascination.  '  I  ? 
Believe  me,  Zinaida  Alexandrovna,  whatever 
you  did,  however  you  tormented  me,  I  should 
love  and  adore  you  to  the  end  of  my  days.' 

She  turned  with  a  rapid  motion  to  me,  and 
flinging  wide  her  arms,  embraced  my  head,  and 
gave  me  a  warm  and  passionate  kiss.  God 
knows  whom  that  long  farewell  kiss  was  seek- 
ing, but  I  eagerly  tasted  its  sweetness.  I  knew 
that  it  would  never  be  repeated.  *  Good-bye, 
good-bye,'  I  kept  saying  .  .  . 

She  tore  herself  away,  and  went  out.  And 
I  went  away.  I  cannot  describe  the  emotion 
with  which  I  went  away.  I  should  not  wish  it 
ever  to  come  again  ;  but  I  should  think  myself 
unfortunate  had  I  never  experienced  such  an 
emotion. 

340 


FIRST   LOVE 

We  went  back  to  town.  I  did  not  quickly 
shake  off  the  past ;  I  did  not  quickly  get  to 
work.  My  wound  slowly  began  to  heal ;  but  I 
had  no  ill-feeling  against  my  father.  On  the 
contrary  he  had,  as  it  were,  gained  in  my 
eyes  ...  let  psychologists  explain  the  contra- 
diction as  best  they  can.  One  day  I  was 
walking  along  a  boulevard,  and  to  my  inde- 
scribable delight,  I  came  across  Lushin.  I  liked 
him  for  his  straightforward  and  unaffected 
character,  and  besides  he  was  dear  to  me  for  the 
sake  of  the  memories  he  aroused  in  me.  I 
rushed  up  to  him.  '  Aha ! '  he  said,  knitting 
his  brows,  *  so  it 's  you,  young  man.  Let  me  have 
a  look  at  you.  You  're  still  as  yellow  as  ever,  but 
yet  there's  not  the  same  nonsense  in  your  eyes. 
You  look  like  a  man,  not  a  lap-dog.  That's 
good.     Well,  what  are  you  doing  ?   working?' 

I  gave  a  sigh.  I  did  not  like  to  tell  a  lie, 
while  I  was  ashamed  to  tell  the  truth. 

*  Well,  never  mind,'  Lushin  went  on,  *  don't  be 
shy.  The  great  thing  is  to  lead  a  normal  life, 
and  not  be  the  slave  of  your  passions.  What 
do  you  get  if  not?  Wherever  you  are  carried 
by  the  tide — it 's  all  a  bad  look-out ;  a  man 
must  stand  on  his  own  feet,  if  he  can  get  nothing 
but  a  rock  to  stand  on.  Here,  I  've  got  a 
cough  .  .  .  and  Byelovzorov — have  you  heard 
anything  of  him?' 

341 


FIRST  LOVE 

*No.     What  is  it?' 

*  He 's  lost,  and  no  news  of  him  ;  they  say 
he 's  gone  away  to  the  Caucasus.  A  lesson  to 
you,  young  man.  And  it 's  all  from  not  knowing 
how  to  part  in  time,  to  break  out  of  the  net. 
You  seem  to  have  got  off  very  well.  Mind  you 
don't  fall  into  the  same  snare  again.  Good- 
bye.' 

*  I  shan't/  I  thought.  ...  *  I  shan't  see  her 
again.'  But  I  was  destined  to  see  Zinaida 
once  more. 


XXI 

My  father  used  every  day  to  ride  out  on  horse- 
back. He  had  a  splendid  English  mare,  a 
chestnut  piebald,  with  a  long  slender  neck  and 
long  legs,  an  inexhaustible  and  vicious  beast. 
Her  name  was  Electric.  No  one  could  ride  her 
except  my  father.  One  day  he  came  up  to  me 
in  a  good  humour,  a  frame  of  mind  in  which  I 
had  not  seen  him  for  a  long  while ;  he  was 
getting  ready  for  his  ride,  and  had  already  put 
on  his  spurs.  I  began  entreating  him  to  take 
me  with  him. 

*  We  'd  much  better  have  a  game  of  leap- 
frog,' my  father  replied.  '  You  '11  never  keep  up 
with  me  on  your  cob.' 

342 


FIRST   LOVE 

'Yes,  I  will  ;  I  '11  put  on  spurs  too.' 

'All  right,  come  along  then.' 

We  set  off.  I  had  a  shaggy  black  horse, 
strong,  and  fairly  spirited.  It  is  true  it  had  to 
gallop  its  utmost,  when  Electric  went  at  full 
trot,  still  I  was  not  left  behind.  I  have  never 
seen  any  one  ride  like  my  father ;  he  had  such 
a  fine  carelessly  easy  seat,  that  it  seemed  that 
the  horse  under  him  was  conscious  of  it,  and 
proud  of  its  rider.  We  rode  through  all  the 
boulevards, reached  the  'Maidens'  Field,' jumped 
several  fences  (at  first  I  had  been  afraid  to  take 
a  leap,  but  my  father  had  a  contempt  for 
cowards,  and  I  soon  ceased  to  feel  fear),  twice 
crossed  the  river  Moskva,  and  I  was  under  the 
impression  that  we  were  on  our  way  home, 
especially  as  my  father  of  his  own  accord 
observed  that  my  horse  was  tired,  when  suddenly 
he  turned  off  away  from  me  at  the  Crimean 
ford,  and  galloped  along  the  river-bank.  I  rode 
after  him.  When  he  had  reached  a  high  stack 
of  old  timber,  he  slid  quickly  off  Electric,  told 
me  to  dismount,  and  giving  me  his  horse's 
bridle,  told  me  to  wait  for  him  there  at  the 
timber-stack,  and,  turning  off  into  a  small  street, 
disappeared.  I  began  walking  up  and  down 
the  river-bank,  leading  the  horses,  and  scolding 
Electric,  who  kept  pulling,  shaking  her  head, 
snorting  and  neighing  as  she  went ;  and  when 
343 


FIRST   LOVE 

I  Stood  Still,  never  failed  to  paw  the  ground, 
and  whining,  bite  my  cob  on  the  neck  ;  in  fact 
she  conducted  herself  altogether  like  a  spoilt 
thorough-bred.  My  father  did  not  come  back. 
A  disagreeable  damp  mist  rose  from  the  river ; 
a  fine  rain  began  softly  blowing  up,  and 
spotting  with  tiny  dark  flecks  the  stupid  grey 
timber-stack,  which  I  kept  passing  and  repass- 
ing, and  was  deadly  sick  of  by  now.  I  was 
terribly  bored,  and  still  my  father  did  not  come. 
A  sort  of  sentry-man,  a  Fin,  grey  all  over  like 
the  timber,  and  with  a  huge  old-fashioned 
shako,  like  a  pot,  on  his  head,  and  with  a  hal- 
berd (and  how  ever  came  a  sentry,  if  you  think 
of  it,  on  the  banks  of  the  Moskva !)  drew  near, 
and  turning  his  wrinkled  face,  like  an  old 
woman's,  towards  me,  he  observed,  '  What  are 
you  doing  here  with  the  horses,  young  master  ? 
Let  me  hold  them.' 

I  made  him  no  reply.  He  asked  me  for 
tobacco.  To  get  rid  of  him  (I  was  in  a  fret  of 
impatience,  too),  I  took  a  few  steps  in  the 
direction  in  which  my  father  had  disappeared, 
then  walked  along  the  little  street  to  the  end, 
turned  the  corner,  and  stood  still.  In  the  street, 
forty  paces  from  me,  at  jthe  open  window  of  a 
little  wooden  house,  stood  my  father,  his  back 
turned  to  me  ;  he  was  leaning  forward  over  the 
window-sill,  and  in  the  house,  half  hidden  by  a 
344 


FIRST   LOVE 

curtain,  sat  a  woman  in  a  dark  dress  talking 
to  my  father  ;  this  woman  was  Zinaida. 

I  was  petrified.  This,  I  confess,  I  had  never 
expected.  My  first  impulse  was  to  run  away. 
*  My  father  will  look  round,'  I  thought,  '  and  I 
am  lost  .  .  .'  but  a  strange  feeling — a  feeling 
stronger  than  curiosity,  stronger  than  jealousy, 
stronger  even  than  fear — held  me  there.  I 
began  to  watch  ;  I  strained  my  ears  to  listen. 
It  seemed  as  though  my  father  were  insisting 
on  something.  Zinaida  would  not  consent.  I 
seem  to  see  her  face  now — mournful,  serious, 
lovely,  and  with  an  inexpressible  impress  of 
devotion,  grief,  love,  and  a  sort  of  despair — I 
can  find  no  other  word  for  it.  She  uttered 
monosyllables,  not  raising  her  eyes,  simply 
smiling — submissively,  but  without  yielding. 
By  that  smile  alone,  I  should  have  known  my 
Zinaida  of  old  days.  My  father  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  straightened  his  hat  on  his  head, 
which  was  always  a  sign  of  impatience  with 
him.  .  .  .  Then  I  caught  the  words  :  '  Voi/s 
devez  votis  separer  de  cette  .  .  .'  Zinaida  sat 
up,  and  stretched  out  her  arm.  .  .  .  Suddenly, 
before  my  very  eyes,  the  impossible  happened. 
My  father  suddenly  lifted  the  whip,  with  which 
he  had  been  switching  the  dust  off  his  coat,  and 
I  heard  a  sharp  blow  on  that  arm,  bare  to  the 
elbow.  I  could  scarcely  restrain  myself  from 
345 


FIRST   LOVE 

crying  out ;  while  Zinaida  shuddered,  looked 
without  a  word  at  my  father,  and  slowly  raising 
her  arm  to  her  lips,  kissed  the  streak  of  red 
upon  it.  My  father  flung  away  the  whip,  and 
running  quickly  up  the  steps,  dashed  into  the 
house.  .  .  .  Zinaida  turned  round,  and  with  out- 
stretched arms  and  downcast  head,  she  too 
moved  away  from  the  window. 

My  heart  sinking  with  panic,  with  a  sort  of 
awe-struck  horror,  I  rushed  back,  and  running 
down  the  lane,  almost  letting  go  my  hold  of 
Electric,  went  back  to  the  bank  of  the  river.  I 
could  not  think  clearly  of  anything.  I  knew 
that  my  cold  and  reserved  father  was  some- 
times seized  by  fits  of  fury  ;  and  all  the  same, 
I  could  never  comprehend  what  I  had  just 
seen.  .  .  .  But  I  felt  at  the  time  that,  however 
long  I  lived,  I  could  never  forget  the  gesture, 
the  glance,  the  smile,  of  Zinaida ;  that  her 
image,  this  image  so  suddenly  presented  to  me, 
was  imprinted  for  ever  on  my  memory.  I 
stared  vacantly  at  the  river,  and  never  noticed 
that  my  tears  were  streaming.  '  She  is  beaten,' 
I  was  thinking,  .  .  .  '  beaten  .  .  .  beaten.  .  .  .' 

'  Hullo  !  what  are  you  doing  ?  Give  me  the 
mare  ! '  I  heard  my  father's  voice  saying  behind 
me. 

Mechanically  I  gave  him  the  bridle.  He 
leaped  on  to  Electric  .  .  .  the  mare,  chill  with 
346 


FIRST   LOVE 

standing,  reared  on  her  haunches,  and  leaped 
ten  feet  away  .  .  .  but  my  father  soon  subdued 
her  ;  he  drove  the  spurs  into  her  sides,  and 
gave  her  a  blow  on  the  neck  with  his  fist.  .  .  . 
'  Ah,  I  Ve  no  whip,'  he  muttered. 

I  remembered  the  swish  and  fall  of  the  whip, 
heard  so  short  a  time  before,  and  shuddered. 

'  Where  did  you  put  it  ? '  I  asked  my  father, 
after  a  brief  pause. 

My  father  made  no  answer,  and  galloped  on 
ahead.  I  overtook  him.  I  felt  that  I  must  see 
his  face. 

*  Were  you  bored  waiting  for  me  ? '  he  mut- 
tered through  his  teeth. 

*  A  little.  Where  did  you  drop  your  whip  ?  ' 
I  asked  again. 

My  father  glanced  quickly  at  me.  '  I  didn't 
drop  it,'  he  replied  ;  '  I  threw  it  away.'  He 
sank  into  thought,  and  dropped  his  head  .  .  . 
and  then,  for  the  first,  and  almost  for  the  last 
time,  I  saw  how  much  tenderness  and  pity  his 
stern  features  were  capable  of  expressing. 

He  galloped  on  again,  and  this  time  I  could 
not  overtake  him  ;  I  got  home  a  quarter-of-an- 
hour  after  him. 

*  That's  love,'  I  said  to  myself  again,  as  I  sat 
at  night  before  my  writing-table,  on  which 
books  and  papers  had  begun  to  make  their 
appearance  ;  '  that 's  passion  !  ...  To  think  of 

347 


FIRST  LOVE 

not  revolting,  of  bearing  a  blow  from  any  one 
whatever  .  .  .  even  the  dearest  hand  !  But  it 
seems  one  can,  if  one  loves.  .  .  .  While  I  .  .  . 
I  imagined  .  .  .' 

I  had  grown  much  older  during  the  last 
month ;  and  my  love,  with  all  its  transports 
and  sufferings,  struck  me  myself  as  something 
small  and  childish  and  pitiful  beside  this  other 
unimagined  something,  which  I  could  hardly 
fully  grasp,  and  which  frightened  me  like  an 
unknown,  beautiful,  but  menacing  face,  which 
one  strives  in  vain  to  make  out  clearly  in  the 
half-darkness.  ,  .  . 

A  strange  and  fearful  dream  came  to  me  that 
same  night.  I  dreamed  I  went  into  a  low  dark 
room.  .  .  .  My  father  was  standing  with  a  whip 
in  his  hand,  stamping  with  anger;  in  the  corner 
crouched  Zinaida,  and  not  on  her  arm,  but  on 
her  forehead,  was  a  stripe  of  red  .  .  .  while 
behind  them  both  towered  Byelovzorov,  covered 
with  blood  ;  he  opened  his  white  lips,  and 
wrathfully  threatened  my  father. 

Two  months  later,  I  entered  the  university  ; 
and  within  six  months  my  father  died  of  a 
stroke  in  Petersburg,  where  he  had  just  moved 
with  my  mother  and  me.  A  few  days  before 
his  death  he  received  a  letter  from  Moscow 
which  threw  him  into  a  violent  agitation.  .  .  . 
He  went  to  my  mother  to  beg  some  favour  of 
348 


FIRST   LOVE 

her :  and,  I  was  told,  he  positively  shed  tears — 
he,  my  father  !  On  the  very  morning  of  the 
day  when  he  was  stricken  down,  he  had  begun 
a  letter  to  me  in  French.  '  My  son,'  he  wrote 
to  me,  '  fear  the  love  of  woman  ;  fear  that  bliss, 
that  poison.  .  .  .'  After  his  death,  my  mother 
sent  a  considerable  sum  of  money  to  Moscow. 


XXII 

Four  years  passed.  I  had  just  left  the  univer- 
sity, and  did  not  know  exactly  what  to  do  with 
myself,  at  what  door  to  knock  ;  I  was  hanging 
about  for  a  time  with  nothing  to  do.  One  fine 
evening  I  met  Meidanov  at  the  theatre.  He 
had  got  married,  and  had  entered  the  civil 
service  ;  but  I  found  no  change  in  him.  He 
fell  into  ecstasies  in  just  the  same  superfluous 
way,  and  just  as  suddenly  grew  depressed 
again. 

*  You  know,'  he  told  me  among  other  things, 
'  Madame  Dolsky  's  here.' 

'  What  Madame  Dolsky  ?  '  — ^ 

'  Can  you  have  forgotten  her  ? — the  young 
Princess  Zasyekin  whom  we  were  all  in  love 
with,  and  you  too.  Do  you  remember  at  the 
country-house  near  Neskutchny  gardens  ? ' 

'  She  married  a  Dolsky  ? ' 
349 


FIRST  LOVE 

*  Yes.' 

'  And  is  she  here,  in  the  theatre  ? ' 

'  No  :    but  she  's  in  Petersburg.     She  came 

here  a  few  days  ago.     She 's  going  abroad.' 
'  What  sort  of  fellow  is   her   husband  ? '   I 

asked. 

*  A  splendid  fellow,  with  property.  He  's  a 
colleague  of  mine  in  Moscow.  You  can  well 
understand — after  the  scandal  .  .  .  you  must 
know  all  about  it  ...  '  (Meidanov  smiled 
significantly)  '  it  was  no  easy  task  for  her  to 
make  a  good  marriage ;  there  were  consequences 
.  .  .  but  with  her  cleverness,  everything  is 
possible.  Go  and  see  her  ;  she  '11  be  delighted 
to  see  you.     She 's  prettier  than  ever.' 

Meidanov  gave  me  Zinaida's  address.  She 
was  staying  at  the  Hotel  Demut.  Old  memories 
were  astir  within  me.  ...  I  determined  next 
day  to  go  to  see  my  former  '  flame.'  But 
some  business  happened  to  turn  up  ;  a  week 
passed,  and  then  another,  and  when  at  last 
I  went  to  the  Hotel  Demut  and  asked  for 
Madame  Dolsky,  I  learnt  that  four  days  before, 
she  had  died,  almost  suddenly,  in  childbirth. 

I  felt  a  sort  of  stab  at  my  heart.  The  thought 
that  I  might  have  seen  her,  and  had  not 
seen  her,  and  should  never  see  her — that  bitter 
thought  stung  me  with  all  the  force  of  over- 
whelming reproach.  *  She  is  dead  ! '  I  repeated, 
350 


FIRST   LOVE 

staring  stupidly  at  the  hall-porter.  I  slowly 
made  my  way  back  to  the  street,  and  walked 
on  without  knowing  myself  where  I  was  going. 
All  the  past  swam  up  and  rose  at  once  before 
me.  So  this  was  the  solution,  this  was  the  goal 
to  which  that  young,  ardent,  brilliant  life  had 
striven,  all  haste  and  agitation  !  I  mused  on 
this  ;  I  fancied  those  dear  features,  those  eyes, 
those  curls — in  the  narrow  box,  in  the  damp 
underground  darkness — lying  here,  not  far  from 
me — while  I  was  still  alive,  and,  maybe,  a  few 
paces  from  my  father.  ...  I  thought  all  this  ; 
I  strained  my  imagination,  and  yet  all  the 
while  the  lines  : 

*  From  lips  indifferent  of  her  death  I  heard. 
Indifferently  I  listened  to  it,  too,' 
were  echoing  in  my  heart.  O  youth,  youth  ! 
little  dost  thou  care  for  anything  ;  thou  art 
master,  as  it  were,  of  all  the  treasures  of  the 
universe — even  sorrow  gives  thee  pleasure,  even 
grief  thou  canst  turn  to  thy  profit  ;  thou  art 
self-confident  and  insolent  ;  thou  sayest,  '  I 
alone  am  living — look  you  ! ' — but  thy  days 
fly  by  all  the  while,  and  vanish  without 
trace  or  reckoning  ;  and  everything  in  thee 
vanishes,  like  wax  in  the  sun,  like  snow.  .  .  . 
And,  perhaps,  the  whole  secret  of  thy  charm 
lies,  not  in  being  able  to  do  anything,  but  in 
being  able  to  think  thou  wilt  do  anything  ;  lies 
351 


FIRST   LOVE 

just  in  thy  throwing  to  the  winds,  forces  which 
thou  couldst  not  make  other  use  of;  in  each 
of  us  gravely  regarding  himself  as  a  prodigal, 
gravely  supposing  that  he  is  justified  in  saying, 
'  Oh,  what  might  I  not  have  done  if  I  had  not 
wasted  my  time  ! ' 

I,  now  .  .  .  what  did  I  hope  for,  what  did  I 
expect,  what  rich  future  did  I  foresee,  when 
the  phantom  of  my  first  love,  rising  up  for  an 
instant,  barely  called  forth  one  sigh,  one  mourn- 
ful sentiment  ? 

And  what  has  come  to  pass  of  all  I  hoped 
for  ?  And  now,  when  the  shades  of  evening 
begin  to  steal  over  my  life,  what  have  I  left 
fresher,  more  precious,  than  the  memories  of 
the  storm — so  soon  over — of  early  morning,  of 
spring  ? 

But  I  do  myself  injustice.  Even  then,  in 
those  light-hearted  young  days,  I  was  not  deaf 
to  the  voice  of  sorrow,  when  it  called  upon  me, 
to  the  solemn  strains  floating  to  me  from 
beyond  the  tomb.  I  remember,  a  few  days 
after  I  heard  of  Zinaida's  death,  I  was  present, 
through  a  peculiar,  irresistible  impulse,  at  the 
death  of  a  poor  old  woman  who  lived  in  the  same 
house  as  we.  Covered  with  rags,  lying  on  hard 
boards,  with  a  sack  under  her  head,  she  died 
hardly  and  painfully.  Her  whole  life  had  been 
passed  in  the  bitter  struggle  with  daily  want  ; 
352 


FIRST   LOVE 

she  had  known  no  joy,  had  not  tasted  the 
honey  of  happiness.  One  would  have  thought, 
surely  she  would  rejoice  at  death,  at  her  de- 
liverance, her  rest.  But  yet,  as  long  as  her 
decrepit  body  held  out,  as  long  as  her  breast 
still  heaved  in  agony  under  the  icy  hand  weigh- 
ing upon  it,  until  her  last  forces  left  her,  the  old 
woman  crossed  herself,  and  kept  whispering, 
*  Lord,  forgive  my  sins ' ;  and  only  with  the 
last  spark  of  consciousness,  vanished  from  her 
eyes  the  look  of  fear,  of  horror  of  the  end. 
And  I  remember  that  then,  by  the  death-bed 
of  that  poor  old  woman,  I  felt  aghast  for 
Zinaida,  and  longed  to  pray  for  her,  for  my 
father — and  for  myself 


353 


M  U  M  U 

In  one  of  the  outlying  streets  of  Moscow,  in  a 
grey  house  with  white  columns  and  a  balcony, 
warped  all  askew,  there  was  once  living  a  lady, 
a  widow,  surrounded  by  a  numerous  household 
of  serfs.  Her  sons  were  in  the  government 
service  at  Petersburg ;  her  daughters  were 
married ;  she  went  out  very  little,  and  in 
solitude  lived  through  the  last  years  of  her 
miserly  and  dreary  old  age.  Her  day,  a  joyless 
and  gloomy  day,  had  long  been  over ;  but  the 
evening  of  her  life  was  blacker  than  night. 

Of  all  her  servants,  the  most  remarkable  per- 
sonage was  the  porter,  Gerasim,  a  man  full 
twelve  inches  over  the  normal  height,  of  heroic 
build,  and  deaf  and  dumb  from  his  birth.  The 
lady,  his  owner,  had  brought  him  up  from  the 
village  where  he  lived  alone  in  a  little  hut, 
apart  from  his  brothers,  and  was  reckoned  about 
the  most  punctual  of  her  peasants  in  the  pay- 
ment of  the  seignorial  dues.  Endowed  with 
extraordinary  strength,  he  did  the  work  of 
355 


MUMU 

four  men  ;  work  flew  apace  under  his  hands, 
and  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  him  when  he 
was  ploughing,  while,  with  his  huge  palms  press- 
ing hard  upon  the  plough,  he  seemed  alone, 
unaided  by  his  poor  horse,  to  cleave  the  yielding 
bosom  of  the  earth,  or  when,  about  St.  Peter's 
Day,  he  plied  his  scythe  with  a  furious  energy 
that  might  have  mown  a  young  birch  copse  up 
by  the  roots,  or  swiftly  and  untiringly  wielded 
a  flail  over  two  yards  long ;  while  the  hard 
oblong  muscles  of  his  shoulders  rose  and  fell  like 
a  lever.  His  perpetual  silence  lent  a  solemn 
dignity  to  his  unwearying  labour.  He  was  a 
splendid  peasant,  and,  except  for  his  affliction, 
any  girl  would  have  been  glad  to  marry  him. 
.  .  .  But  now  they  had  taken  Gerasim  to 
Moscow,  bought  him  boots,  had  him  made  a 
full-skirted  coat  for  summer,  a  sheepskin  for 
winter,  put  into  his  hand  a  broom  and  a  spade, 
and  appointed  him  porter. 

At  first  he  intensely  disliked  his  new  mode 
of  life.  From  his  childhood  he  had  been  used 
to  field  labour,  to  village  life.  Shut  off  by  his 
affliction  from  the  society  of  men,  he  had  grown 
up,  dumb  and  mighty,  as  a  tree  grows  on  a 
fruitful  soil.  When  he  was  transported  to  the 
town,  he  could  not  understand  what  was  being 
done  with  him  ;  he  was  miserable  and  stupefied, 
with  the  stupefaction  of  some  strong  young 
356 


MUMU 

bull,  taken  straight  from  the  meadow,  where 
the  rich  grass  stood  up  to  his  belly,  taken  and 
put  in  the  truck  of  a  railway  train,  and  there, 
while  smoke  and  sparks  and  gusts  of  steam 
puff  out  upon  the  sturdy  beast,  he  is  whirled  on- 
wards, whirled  along  with  loud  roar  and  whistle, 
whither — God  knows  !  What  Gerasim  had  to 
do  in  his  new  duties  seemed  a  mere  trifle  to 
him  after  his  hard  toil  as  a  peasant;  in  half-an- 
hour,  all  his  work  was  done,  and  he  would  once 
more  stand  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the 
courtyard,  staring  open-mouthed  at  all  the 
passers-by,  as  though  trying  to  wrest  from  them 
the  explanation  of  his  perplexing  position  ;  or 
he  would  suddenly  go  off  into  some  corner,  and 
flinging  a  long  way  off  the  broom  or  the  spade, 
throw  himself  on  his  face  on  the  ground,  and 
lie  for  hours  together  without  stirring,  like  a 
caged  beast.  But  man  gets  used  to  anything, 
and  Gerasim  got  used  at  last  to  living  in  town. 
He  had  little  work  to  do  ;  his  whole  duty  con- 
sisted in  keeping  the  courtyard  clean,  bringing 
in  a  barrel  of  water  twice  a  day,  splitting  and 
dragging  in  wood  for  the  kitchen  and  the  house, 
keeping  out  strangers,  and  watching  at  night. 
And  it  must  be  said  he  did  his  duty  zealously. 
In  his  courtyard  there  was  never  a  shaving 
lying  about,  never  a  speck  of  dust ;  if  some- 
times, in  the  muddy  season,  the  wretched 
357 


MUMU 

nag,  put  under  his  charge  for  fetching  water,  got 
stuck  in  the  road,  he  would  simply  give  it  a 
shove  with  his  shoulder,  and  set  not  only  the 
cart  but  the  horse  itself  moving.  If  he  set  to 
chopping  wood,  the  axe  fairly  rang  like 
glass,  and  chips  and  chunks  flew  in  all  direc- 
tions. And  as  for  strangers,  after  he  had  one 
night  caught  two  thieves  and  knocked  their 
heads  together — knocked  them  so  that  there 
was  not  the  slightest  need  to  take  them  to  the 
police-station  afterwards — every  one  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood began  to  feel  a  great  respect  for  him ; 
even  those  who  came  in  the  day-time,  by  no 
means  robbers,  but  simply  unknown  persons, 
at  the  sight  of  the  terrible  porter,  waved  and 
shouted  to  him  as  though  he  could  hear  their 
shouts.  With  all  the  rest  of  the  servants, 
Gerasim  was  on  terms,  hardly  friendly — they 
were  afraid  of  him — but  familiar;  he  regarded 
them  as  his  fellows.  They  explained  them- 
selves to  him  by  signs,  and  he  understood  them, 
and  exactly  carried  out  all  orders,  but  knew  his 
own  rights  too,  and  soon  no  one  dared  to  take 
his  seat  at  the  table.  Gerasim  was  altogether 
of  a  strict  and  serious  temper,  he  liked  order  in 
everything ;  even  the  cocks  did  not  dare  to 
fight  in  his  presence,  or  woe  betide  them ! 
directly  he  caught  sight  of  them,  he  would  seize 
them  by  the  legs,  swing  them  ten  times  round 
358 


MUMU 

in  the  air  like  a  wheel,  and  throw  them  in 
different  directions.  There  were  geese,  too, 
kept  in  the  yard  ;  but  the  goose,  as  is  well 
known,  is  a  dignified  and  reasonable  bird ; 
Gerasim  felt  a  respect  for  them,  looked  after 
them,  and  fed  them  ;  he  was  himself  not  unlike 
a  gander  of  the  steppes.  He  was  assigned  a 
little  garret  over  the  kitchen  ;  he  arranged  it 
himself  to  his  own  liking,  made  a  bedstead  in 
it  of  oak  boards  on  four  stumps  of  wood  for 
legs — a  truly  Titanic  bedstead;  one  might  have 
put  a  ton  or  two  on  it — it  would  not  have  bent 
under  the  load  ;  under  the  bed  was  a  solid 
chest ;  in  a  corner  stood  a  little  table  of  the 
same  strong  kind,  and  near  the  table  a  three- 
legged  stool,  so  solid  and  squat  that  Gerasim 
himself  would  sometimes  pick  it  up  and  drop 
it  again  with  a  smile  of  delight.  The  garret 
was  locked  up  by  means  of  a  padlock  that 
looked  like  a  kalatch  or  basket-shaped  loaf, 
only  black  ;  the  key  of  this  padlock  Gerasim 
always  carried  about  him  in  his  girdle.  He 
did  not  like  people  to  come  to  his  garret. 

So  passed  a  year,  at  the  end  of  which  a  little 
incident  befell  Gerasim. 

The  old  lady,  in  whose  service  he  lived  as 

porter,  adhered  in  everything  to  the  ancient 

ways,  and  kept  a  large  number  of  servants.    In 

her   house   were   not   only  laundresses,  semp- 

359 


MUMU 

stresses,  carpenters,  tailors  and  tailoresses,  there 
was  even  a  harness-maker — he  was  reckoned 
as  a  veterinary  surgeon,  too, — and  a  doctor  for 
the  servants  ;  there  was  a  household  doctor  for 
the  mistress ;  there  was,  lastly,  a  shoemaker,  by 
name  Kapiton  Klimov,  a  sad  drunkard.  Klimov 
regarded  himself  as  an  injured  creature,  whose 
merits  were  unappreciated,  a  cultivated  man 
from  Petersburg,  who  ought  not  to  be  living  in 
Moscow  without  occupation — in  the  wilds,  so 
to  speak ;  and  if  he  drank,  as  he  himself  ex- 
pressed it  emphatically,  with  a  blow  on  his 
chest,  it  was  sorrow  drove  him  to  it.  So  one 
day  his  mistress  had  a  conversation  about  him 
with  her  head  steward,  Gavrila,  a  man  whom, 
judging  solely  from  his  little  yellow  eyes  and 
nose  like  a  duck's  beak,  fate  itself,  it  seemed, 
had  marked  out  as  a  person  in  authority.  The 
lady  expressed  her  regret  at  the  corruption  of 
the  morals  of  Kapiton,  who  had,  only  theevening 
before,  been  picked  up  somewhere  in  the  street. 

*  Now,  Gavrila,'  she  observed,  all  of  a  sudden, 
*  now,  if  we  were  to  marry  him,  what  do  you 
think,  perhaps  he  would  be  steadier?' 

*  Why  not  marry  him,  indeed,  'm  ?  He  could 
be  married, 'm,'  answered  Gavrila,  'and  it  would 
be  a  very  good  thing,  to  be  sure,  'm.' 

*  Yes  ;  only  who  is  to  marry  him  ?  ' 

*Ay,   'm.     But   that's  at  your  pleasure,  'm. 
360 


MUMU 

He  may,  any  way,  so  to  say,  be  wanted  for 
something;  he  can't  be  turned  adrift  altogether.' 

'  I  fancy  he  likes  Tatiana.' 

Gavrila  was  on  the  point  of  making  some 
reply,  but  he  shut  his  lips  tightly. 

'  Yes !  ...  let  him  marry  Tatiana,'  the  lady 
decided,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff  complacently, 
*  Do  you  hear  ? ' 

'  Yes,  'm,'  Gavrila  articulated,  and  he  with- 
drew. 

Returning  to  his  own  room  (it  was  in  a  little 
lodge,  and  was  almost  filled  up  with  metal- 
bound  trunks),  Gavrila  first  sent  his  wife  away, 
and  then  sat  down  at  the  window  and  pondered. 
His  mistress's  unexpected  arrangement  had 
clearly  put  him  in  a  difficulty.  At  last  he  got 
up  and  sent  to  call  Kapiton.  Kapiton  made 
his  appearance.  .  .  .  But  before  reporting  their 
conversation  to  the  reader,  we  consider  it  not 
out  of  place  to  relate  in  few  words  who  was  this 
Tatiana,  whom  it  was  to  be  Kapiton's  lot  to 
marry,  and  why  the  great  lady's  order  had  dis- 
turbed the  steward. 

Tatiana,  one  of  the  laundresses  referred  to  / 
above  (as  a  trained  and  skilful  laundress  she 
was  in  charge  of  the  fine  linen  only),  was  a 
woman  of  twenty-eight,  thin,  fair-haired,  with 
moles  on  her  left  cheek.  Moles  on  the  left 
cheek  are  regarded  as  of  evil  omen  in  Russia — 
361 


MUMU 

a  token  of  unhappy  life.  .  .  .  Tatiana  could  not 
boast  of  her  good  luck.  From  her  earliest  youth 
she  had  been  badly  treated ;  she  had  done  the 
work  of  two,  and  had  never  knov/n  affection  ; 
she  had  been  poorly  clothed  and  had  received 
the  smallest  wages.  Relations  she  had  practi- 
cally none;  an  uncle  she  had  once  had,  a 
butler,  left  behind  in  the  country  as  useless,  and 
other  uncles  of  hers  were  peasants — that  was 
all.  At  one  time  she  had  passed  for  a  beauty, 
but  her  good  looks  were  very  soon  over.  In 
disposition,  she  was  very  meek,  or,  rather, 
scared ;  towards  herself,  she  felt  perfect  in- 
difference ;  of  others,  she  stood  in  mortal  dread  ; 
she  thought  of  nothing  but  how  to  get  her  work 
done  in  good  time,  never  talked  to  any  one, 
and  trembled  at  the  very  name  of  her  mistress, 
though  the  latter  scarcely  knew  her  by  sight. 
When  Gerasim  was  brought  from  the  country, 
she  was  ready  to  die  with  fear  on  seeing  his 
huge  figure,  tried  all  she  could  to  avoid  meeting 
him,  even  dropped  her  eyelids  when  sometimes 
she  chanced  to  run  past  him,  hurrying  from  the 
house  to  the  laundry.  Gerasim  at  first  paid  no 
special  attention  to  her,  then  he  used  to  smile 
when  she  came  his  way,  then  he  began  even  to 
stare  admiringly  at  her,  and  at  last  he  never 
took  his  eyes  off  her.  She  took  his  fancy, 
whether  by  the  mild  expression  of  her  face  or 
362 


MUMU 

the  timidity  of  her  movements,  who  can  tell  ? 
So  one  day  she  was  stealing  across  the  yard, 
with  a  starched  dressing-jacket  of  her  mistress's 
carefully  poised  on  her  outspread  fingers  .  .  . 
some  one  suddenly  grasped  her  vigorously  by 
the  elbow;  she  turned  round  and  fairly 
screamed ;  behind  her  stood  Gerasim.  With 
a  foolish  smile,  making  inarticulate  caressing 
grunts,  he  held  out  to  her  a  gingerbread  cock 
with  gold  tinsel  on  his  tail  and  wings.  She 
was  about  to  refuse  it,  but  he  thrust  it  forcibly 
into  her  hand,  shook  his  head,  walked  away, 
and  turning  round,  once  more  grunted  some- 
thing very  affectionately  to  her.  From  that 
day  forward  he  gave  her  no  peace;  wherever 
she  went,  he  was  on  the  spot  at  once,  coming  to 
meet  her,  smiling,  grunting,  waving  his  hands  ; 
all  at  once  he  would  pull  a  ribbon  out  of  the 
bosom  of  his  smock  and  put  it  in  her  hand,  or 
would  sweep  the  dust  out  of  her  way.  The 
poor  girl  simply  did  not  know  how  to  be- 
have or  what  to  do.  Soon  the  whole  household 
knew  of  the  dumb  porter's  wiles  ;  jeers,  jokes,  sly 
hints  were  showered  upon  Tatiana.  At  Gerasim, 
however,  it  was  not  every  one  who  would  dare  to 
scoff;  he  did  not  like  jokes;  indeed,  in  his  pre- 
sence, she,  too,  was  left  in  peace.  Whether  she 
liked  it  or  not,  the  girl  found  herself  to  be  under 
his  protection.  Like  all  deaf-mutes,  he  was 
363 


MUMU 

very  suspicious,  and  very  readily  perceived 
when  they  were  laughing  at  him  or  at  her. 
One  day,  at  dinner,  the  wardrobe- keeper, 
Tatiana's  superior,  fell  to  nagging,  as  it  is 
called,  at  her,  and  brought  the  poor  thing  to 
such  a  state  that  she  did  not  know  where  to 
look,  and  was  almost  crying  with  vexation. 
Gerasim  got  up  all  of  a  sudden,  stretched  out 
his  gigantic  hand,  laid  it  on  the  wardrobe-maid's 
head,  and  looked  into  her  face  with  such  grim 
ferocity  that  her  head  positively  flopped  upon  the 
table.  Every  one  was  still.  Gerasim  took  up 
his  spoon  again  and  went  on  with  his  cabbage- 
soup.  'Look  at  him,  the  dumb  devil,  the  wood- 
demon  ! '  they  all  muttered  in  under-tones, 
while  the  wardrobe -maid  got  up  and  went 
out  into  the  maids'  room.  Another  time,  notice- 
ing  that  Kapiton — the  same  Kapiton  who  was 
the  subject  of  the  conversation  reported  above 
— was  gossiping  somewhat  too  attentively  with 
Tatiana,  Gerasim  beckoned  him  to  him,  led 
him  into  the  cartshed,  and  taking  up  a  shaft 
that  was  standing  in  a  corner  by  one  end, 
lightly,  but  most  significantly,  menaced  him 
with  it.  Since  then  no  one  addressed  a  word 
to  Tatiana.  And  all  this  cost  him  nothing. 
It  is  true  the  wardrobe-maid,  as  soon  as  she 
reached  the  maids'  room,  promptly  fell  into  a 
fainting-fit,  and  behaved  altogether  so  skilfully 
364 


MUMU 

that  Gerasim's  rough  action  reached  his  mis- 
tress's knowledge  the  same  day.  But  the  capri- 
cious old  lady  only  laughed,  and  several  times, 
to  the  great  offence  of  the  wardrobe-maid, 
forced  her  to  repeat  *  how  he  bent  your  head 
down  with  his  heavy  hand,'  and  next  day  she 
sent  Gerasim  a  rouble.  She  looked  on  him 
with  favour  as  a  strong  and  faithful  watchman. 
Gerasim  stood  in  considerable  awe  of  her,  but, 
all  the  same,  he  had  hopes  of  her  favour,  and 
was  preparing  to  go  to  her  with  a  petition  for 
leave  to  marry  Tatiana.  He  was  only  waiting 
for  a  new  coat,  promised  him  by  the  steward, 
to  present  a  proper  appearance  before  his 
mistress,  when  this  same  mistress  suddenly 
took  it  into  her  head  to  marry  Tatiana  to 
Kapiton. 

The  reader  will  now  readily  understand 
the  perturbation  of  mind  that  overtook  the 
steward  Gavrila  after  his  conversation  with  his 
mistress.  *  My  lady,'  he  thought,  as  he  sat  at 
the  window,  'favours  Gerasim,  to  be  sure' — 
(Gavrila  was  well  aware  of  this,  and  that  was 
why  he  himself  looked  on  him  with  an  indul- 
gent eye) — *  still  he  is  a  speechless  creature.  I 
could  not,  indeed,  put  it  before  the  mistress 
that  Gerasim 's  courting  Tatiana.  But,  after 
all,  it 's  true  enough  ;  he's  a  queer  sort  of  hus- 
band. But  on  the  other  hand,  that  devil,  God 
365 


MUMU 

forgive  me,  has  only  got  to  find  out  they're 
marrying  Tatiana  to  Kapiton,  he  '11  smash  up 
everything  in  the  house,  'pon  my  soul !  There 's 
no  reasoning  with  him  ;  v^^hy,  he  's  such  a  devil, 
God  forgive  my  sins,  there's  no  getting  over 
him  no  how  .  .  .  'pon  my  soul  ! ' 

Kapiton's  entrance  broke  the  thread  of  Ga- 
vrila's  reflections.  The  dissipated  shoemaker 
came  in,  his  hands  behind  him,  and  lounging 
carelessly  against  a  projecting  angle  of  the  wall, 
near  the  door,  crossed  his  right  foot  in  front  of 
his  left,  and  tossed  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say, 
*  What  do  you  want  ?  ' 

Gavrila  looked  at  Kapiton,  and  drummed 
with  his  fingers  on  the  window-frame.  Kapiton 
merely  screwed  up  his  leaden  eyes  a  little,  but 
he  did  not  look  down,  he  even  grinned  slightly, 
and  passed  his  hand  over  his  whitish  locks 
which  were  sticking  up  in  all  directions.  '  Well, 
here  I  am.     What  is  it  ? ' 

*  You  're  a  pretty  fellow,'  said  Gavrila,  and 
paused.  '  A  pretty  fellow  you  are,  there 's  no 
denying  ! ' 

Kapiton  only  twitched  his  little  shoulders. 
'  Are  you  any  better,  pray  ? '  he  thought  to 
himself. 

*  Just  look  at  yourself,  now,  look  at  yourself,' 
Gavrila  went  on  reproachfully  ;  *  now,  what  ever 
do  you  look  like  ?' 

366 


MUMU 

Kapiton  serenely  surveyed  his  shabby  tat- 
tered coat,  and  his  patched  trousers,  and  with 
special  attention  stared  at  his  burst  boots, 
especially  the  one  on  the  tip-toe  of  which  his 
right  foot  so  gracefully  poised,  and  he  fixed  his 
eyes  again  on  the  steward. 

'Well?' 

'Well?'  repeated  Gavrila.  'Well?  And 
then  you  say  well  ?  You  look  like  old  Nick 
himself,  God  forgive  my  saying  so,  that's  what 
you  look  like.' 

Kapiton  blinked  rapidly. 

'  Go  on  abusing  me,  go  on,  if  you  like,  Gavrila 
Andreitch,'  he  thought  to  himself  again. 

'  Here  you  've  been  drunk  again,'  Gavrila 
began, 'drunk  again,  haven't  you?  Eh?  Come, 
answer  me  ! ' 

'  Owing  to  the  weakness  of  my  health,  I  have 
exposed  myself  to  spirituous  beverages,  cer- 
tainly,' replied  Kapiton. 

'  Owing  to  the  weakness  of  your  health  !  .  .  . 
They  let  you  off  too  easy,  that 's  what  it  is  ; 
and  you  've  been  apprenticed  in  Petersburg.  .  .  . 
Much  you  learned  in  your  apprenticeship  !  You 
simply  eat  your  bread  in  idleness.' 

'  In  that  matter,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  there  is 

one  to  judge  me,  the  Lord  God  Himself,  and 

no  one  else.     He  also  knows  what  manner  of 

man  I  be  in  this  world,  and  whether  I  eat  my 

367 


MUMU 

bread  in  idleness.  And  as  concerning  your  con- 
tention regarding  drunkenness,  in  that  matter, 
too,  I  am  not  to  blame,  but  rather  a  friend  ; 
he  led  me  into  temptation,  but  was  diplomatic 
and  got  away,  while  I  .  .  .' 

'While  you  were  left,  like  a  goose,  in  the 
street.  Ah,  you  're  a  dissolute  fellow !  But 
that 's  not  the  point,'  the  steward  went  on, 
'  I  've  something  to  tell  you.  Our  lady  .  .  .' 
here  he  paused  a  minute,  *  it 's  our  lady's  plea- 
sure that  you  should  be  married.  Do  you 
hear  ?  She  imagines  you  may  be  steadier  when 
you  're  married.     Do  you  understand  ?  ' 

*  To  be  sure  I  do.' 

*  Well,  then.  For  my  part  I  think  it  would 
be  better  to  give  you  a  good  hiding.  But  there 
— it 's  her  business.     Well  ?  are  you  agreeable  ?' 

Kapiton  grinned. 

*  Matrimony  is  an  excellent  thing  for  any  one, 
Gavrila  Andreitch  ;  and,  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, I  shall  be  quite  agreeable.' 

*  Very  well,  then,'  replied  Gavrila,  while  he 
reflected  to  himself:  'there's  no  denying  the 
man  expresses  himself  very  properly.  Only 
there's  one  thing,'  he  pursued  aloud  :  '  the  wife 
our  lady's  picked  out  for  you  is  an  unlucky 
choice.' 

'  Why,  who  is  she,  permit  me  to  inquire  ? ' 
'  Tatiana.' 

368 


MUMU 

'  Tatiana  ?' 

And  Kapiton  opened  his  eyes,  and  moved  a 
little  away  from  the  wall. 

*  Well,  what  are  you  in  such  a  taking  for  ?  .  .  . 
Isn't  she  to  your  taste,  hey  ?' 

*  Not  to  my  taste,  do  you  say,  Gavrila 
Andreitch !  She 's  right  enough,  a  hard- 
working steady  girl.  .  .  .  But  you  know 
very  well  yourself,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  why 
that  fellow,  that  wild  man  of  the  woods, 
that  monster  of  the  steppes,  he  's  after  her,  you 
know.  .  .  .' 

'  I  know,  mate,  I  know  all  about  it,'  the  butler 
cut  him  short  in  a  tone  of  annoyance:  'but 
there,  you  see  .  .  .' 

'  But  upon  my  soul,  Gavrila  Andreitch  !  why, 
he  '11  kill  me,  by  God,  he  will,  he  '11  crush  me 
like  some  fly  ;  why,  he  's  got  a  fist — why,  you 
kindly  look  yourself  what  a  fist  he 's  got ;  why, 
he  's  simply  got  a  fist  like  Minin  Pozharsky's. 
You  see  he  's  deaf,  he  beats  and  does  not  hear 
how  he 's  beating !  He  swings  his  great  fists, 
as  if  he 's  asleep.  And  there 's  no  possibility  of 
pacifying  him  ;  and  for  why  ?  Why,  because, 
as  you  know  yourself,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  he  's 
deaf,  and  what 's  more,  has  no  more  wit  than 
the  heel  of  my  foot.  Why,  he  's  a  sort  of  beast, 
a  heathen  idol,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  and  worse 
...  a  block  of  wood  ;  what  have  I  done  that  I 
2  A  369 


MUMU 

should  have  to  suffer  from  him  now  ?  Sure  it 
is,  it 's  all  over  with  me  now  ;  I  Ve  knocked 
about,  I  Ve  had  enough  to  put  up  with,  I  Ve 
been  battered  like  an  earthenware  pot,  but  still 
I  'm  a  man,  after  all,  and  not  a  worthless 
pot.' 

'  I  know,  I  know,  don't  go  talking  away.  .  .  .' 

'  Lord,  my  God  ! '  the  shoemaker  continued 
warmly,  *  when  is  the  end  ?  when,  O  Lord  !  A 
poor  wretch  I  am,  a  poor  wretch  whose  suffer- 
ings are  endless !  What  a  life,  what  a  life 
mine 's  been,  come  to  think  of  it !  In  my  young 
days,  I  was  beaten  by  a  German  I  was  'prentice 
to ;  in  the  prime  of  life  beaten  by  my  own 
countrymen,  and  last  of  all,  in  ripe  years,  see 
what  I  have  been  brought  to.  .  .  .' 

'  Ugh,  you  flabby  soul  ! '  said  Gavrila  And- 
reitch.  '  Why  do  you  make  so  many  words 
about  it  ? ' 

'Why,  do  you  say,  Gavrila  Andreitch?  It's 
not  a  beating  I  'm  afraid  of,  Gavrila  Andreitch. 
A  gentleman  may  chastise  me  in  private,  but 
give  me  a  civil  word  before  folks,  and  I  'm  a 
man  still ;  but  see  now,  whom  I  've  to  do 
with.  .  .  .' 

'  Come,  get  along,'  Gavrila  interposed  im- 
patiently. Kapiton  turned  away  and  staggered 
off. 

'But,  if  it  were   not   for   him,'  the   steward 
370 


MUMU 

shouted  after  him,  'you  would  consent  for 
your  part  ? ' 

*  I  signify  my  acquiescence,'  retorted  Kapiton 
as  he  disappeared. 

His  fine  language  did  not  desert  him,  even  in 
the  most  trying  positions. 

The  steward  walked  several  times  up  and 
down  the  room. 

'  Well,  call  Tatiana  now,'  he  said  at  last. 

A  few  instants  later,  Tatiana  had  come  up 
almost  noiselessly,  and  was  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

'  What  are  your  orders,  Gavrila  Andreitch  ?  ' 
she  said  in  a  soft  voice. 

The  steward  looked  at  her  intently. 

'  Well,  Taniusha,'  he  said,  *  would  you  like  to 
be  married  ?  Our  lady  has  chosen  a  husband 
for  you.' 

'  Yes,  Gavrila  Andreitch.  And  whom  has 
she  deigned  to  name  as  a  husband  for  me  ? ' 
she  added  falteringly. 

'  Kapiton,  the  shoemaker.' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'  He 's  a  feather-brained  fellow,  that 's  certain. 
But  it 's  just  for  that  the  mistress  reckons  upon 
you.' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'  There 's  one  difficulty  .  .  .  you  know  the 
deaf  man,  Gerasim,  he's  courting  you,  you  see, 
371 


MUMU 

How  did  you  come  to  bewitch  such  a  bear? 
But  you  see,  he  '11  kill  you,  very  like,  he 's  such 
a  bear.  .  .  .' 

'He'll  kill  me,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  he '11  kill 
me,  and  no  mistake.' 

*  Kill  you.  .  .  .  Well,  we  shall  see  about 
that.  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  he  '11  kill 
you  ?  Has  he  any  right  to  kill  you  ?  tell  me 
yourself.' 

'  I  don't  know,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  about  his 
having  any  right  or  not.' 

'  What  a  woman  !  why,  you  've  made  him  no 
promise,  I  suppose.  .  .  .' 

*  What  are  you  pleased  to  ask  of  me  ? ' 

The  steward  was  silent  for  a  little,  thinking, 
'You're  a  meek  soul!  Well,  that's  right,' 
he  said  aloud  ;  '  we  '11  have  another  talk  with 
you  later,  now  you  can  go,  Taniusha ;  I  see 
you  're  not  unruly,  certainly.' 

Tatiana  turned,  steadied  herself  a  little  against 
the  doorpost,  and  went  away. 

'  And,  perhaps,  our  lady  will  forget  all  about 
this  wedding  by  to-morrow,'  thought  the 
steward  ;  '  and  here  am  I  worrying  myself  for 
nothing  !  As  for  that  insolent  fellow,  we  must 
tie  him  down,  if  it  comes  to  that,  we  must  let 
the  police  know '  .  .  .  Ustinya  Fyedorovna  ! ' 
he  shouted  in  a  loud  voice  to  his  wife,  '  heat 
the  samovar,  my  good  soul.  .  .  .'     All  that  day 


MUMU 

Tatiana  hardly  went  out  of  the  laundry.  At 
first  she  had  started  crying,  then  she  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and  set  to  work  as  before. 
Kapiton  stayed  till  late  at  night  at  the  ginshop 
with  a  friend  of  his,  a  man  of  gloomy  appear- 
ance, to  whom  he  related  in  detail  how  he  used 
to  live  in  Petersburg  with  a  gentleman,  who 
would  have  been  all  right,  except  he  was  a  bit 
too  strict,  and  he  had  a  slight  weakness  besides, 
he  was  too  fond  of  drink  ;  and,  as  to  the  fair 
sex,  he  didn't  stick  at  anything.  His  gloomy 
companion  merely  said  yes  ;  but  when  Kapiton 
announced  at  last  that,  in  a  certain  event,  he 
would  have  to  lay  hands  on  himself  to-morrow, 
his  gloomy  companion  remarked  that  it  was 
bedtime.     And  they  parted  in  surly  silence. 

Meanwhile,  the  steward's  anticipations  were 
not  fulfilled.  The  old  lady  was  so  much  taken 
up  with  the  idea  of  Kapiton's  wedding,  that 
even  in  the  night  she  talked  of  nothing  else  to 
one  of  her  companions,  who  was  kept  in  her 
house  solely  to  entertain  her  in  case  of  sleep- 
lessness, and,  like  a  night  cabman,  slept  in  the 
day.  When  Gavrila  came  to  her  after  morning 
tea  with  his  report,  her  first  question  was  : 
*  And  how  about  our  wedding — is  it  getting  on 
all  right  ? '  He  replied,  of  course,  that  it  was 
getting  on  first  rate,  and  that  Kapiton  would 
appear  before  her  to  pay  his  reverence  to  her 
373 


MUMU 

that  day.  The  old  lady  was  not  quite  well  ; 
she  did  not  give  much  time  to  business.  The 
steward  went  back  to  his  own  room,  and  called 
a  council.  The  matter  certainly  called  for 
serious  consideration.  Tatiana  would  make  no 
difficulty,  of  course  ;  but  Kapiton  had  declared 
in  the  hearing  of  all  that  he  had  but  one  head 
to  lose,  not  two  or  three.  .  .  .  Gerasim  turned 
rapid  sullen  looks  on  every  one,  would  not 
budge  from  the  steps  of  the  maids'  quarters, 
and  seemed  to  guess  that  some  mischief  was 
being  hatched  against  him.  They  met  to- 
gether. Among  them  was  an  old  sideboard 
waiter,  nicknamed  Uncle  Tail,  to  vvhom  every 
one  looked  respectfully  for  counsel,  though  all 
they  got  out  of  him  was,  '  Here 's  a  pretty  pass  ! 
to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure  ! '  As  a 
preliminary  measure  of  security,  to  provide 
against  contingencies,  they  locked  Kapiton  up 
in  the  lumber-room  where  the  filter  was  kept  ; 
then  considered  the  question  with  the  gravest 
deliberation  It  would,  to  be  sure,  be  easy  to 
have  recourse  to  force.  But  Heaven  save  us  ! 
there  would  be  an  uproar,  the  mistress  would 
be  put  out — it  would  be  awful  !  What  should 
they  do  ?  They  thought  and  thought,  and  at 
last  thought  out  a  solution.  It  had  many  a 
time  been  observed  that  Gerasim  could  not 
bear  drunkards.  ...  As  he  sat  at  the  gates,  he 
374 


MUMU 

would  always  turn  away  with  disgust  when  some 
one  passed  by  intoxicated,  with  unsteady  steps 
and  his  cap  on  one  side  of  his  ear.  They 
resolved  that  Tatiana  should  be  instructed  to 
pretend  to  be  tipsy,  and  should  pass  by  Gerasim 
staggering  and  reeling  about.  The  poor  girl 
refused  for  a  long  while  to  agree  to  this,  but 
they  persuaded  her  at  last  ;  she  saw,  too,  that 
it  was  the  only  possible  way  of  getting  rid  of 
her  adorer.  She  went  out.  Kapiton  was  re- 
leased from  the  lumber-room  ;  for,  after  all,  he 
had  an  interest  in  the  affair.  Gerasim  was 
sitting  on  the  curb-stone  at  the  gates,  scraping 
the  ground  with  a  spade.  .  .  .  From  behind 
every  corner,  from  behind  every  window-blind, 
the  others  were  watching  him.  .  .  .  The  trick 
succeeded  beyond  all  expectations.  On  seeing 
Tatiana,  at  first,  he  nodded  as  usual,  making 
caressing,  inarticulate  sounds  ;  then  he  looked 
carefully  at  her,  dropped  his  spade,  jumped  up, 
went  up  to  her,  brought  his  face  close  to  her 
face.  ...  In  her  fright  she  staggered  more  than 
ever,  and  shut  her  eyes.  .  .  .  He  took  her  by 
the  arm,  whirled  her  right  across  the  yard,  and 
going  into  the  room  where  the  council  had 
been  sitting,  pushed  her  straight  at  Kapiton. 
Tatiana  fairly  swooned  away.  .  .  .  Gerasim 
stood,  looked  at  her,  waved  his  hand,  laughed, 
and  went  off,  stepping  heavily,  to  his  garret. 
375 


MUMU 

.  .  .  For  the  next  twenty-four  hours,  he  did  not 
come  out  of  it.  The  postilHon  Antipka  said 
afterwards  that  he  saw  Gerasim  through  a 
crack  in  the  wall,  sitting  on  his  bedstead,  his 
face  in  his  hand.  From  time  to  time  he  uttered 
soft  regular  sounds  ;  he  was  wailing  a  dirge, 
that  is,  swaying  backwards  and  forwards  with 
his  eyes  shut,  and  shaking  his  head  as  drivers 
or  bargemen  do  when  they  chant  their  melan- 
choly songs.  Antipka  could  not  bear  it,  and 
he  came  away  from  the  crack.  When  Gerasim 
came  out  of  the  garret  next  day,  no  particular 
change  could  be  observed  in  him.  He  only 
seemed,  as  it  were,  more  morose,  and  took  not 
the  slightest  notice  of  Tatiana  or  Kapiton. 
The  same  evening,  they  both  had  to  appear 
before  their  mistress  with  geese  under  their 
arms,  and  in  a  week's  time  they  were  married. 
Even  on  the  day  of  the  wedding  Gerasim 
showed  no  change  of  any  sort  in  his  behaviour. 
Only,  he  came  back  from  the  river  without 
water,  he  had  somehow  broken  the  barrel  on 
the  road  ;  and  at  night,  in  the  stable,  he  washed 
and  rubbed  down  his  horse  so  vigorously,  that 
it  swayed  like  a  blade  of  grass  in  the  wind,  and 
staggered  from  one  leg  to  the  other  under  his 
fists  of  iron. 

All    this    had    taken    place    in    the   spring. 
Another  year  passed  by,  during  which  Kapiton 
37(^ 


MUMU 

became  a  hopeless  drunkard,  and  as  being 
absolutely  of  no  use  for  anything,  was  sent 
away  with  the  store  waggons  to  a  distant 
village  with  his  wife.  On  the  day  of  his 
departure,  he  put  a  very  good  face  on  it  at 
first,  and  declared  that  he  would  always  be  at 
home,  send  him  where  they  would,  even  to  the 
other  end  of  the  world  ;  but  later  on  he  lost 
heart,  began  grumbling  that  he  was  being  taken 
to  uneducated  people,  and  collapsed  so  com- 
pletely at  last  that  he  could  not  even  put  his 
own  hat  on.  Some  charitable  soul  stuck  it  on 
his  forehead,  set  the  peak  straight  in  front,  and 
thrust  it  on  with  a  slap  from  above.  When 
everything  was  quite  ready,  and  the  peasants 
already  held  the  reins  in  their  hands,  and 
were  only  waiting  for  the  words  '  With  God's 
blessing ! '  to  start,  Gerasim  came  out  of  his 
garret,  went  up  to  Tatiana,  and  gave  her  as  a 
parting  present  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  he 
had  bought  for  her  a  year  ago.  Tatiana,  who 
had  up  to  that  instant  borne  all  the  revolting 
details  of  her  life  with  great  indifference,  could 
not  control  herself  upon  that ;  she  burst  into 
tears,  and  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the  cart, 
she  kissed  Gerasim  three  times  like  a  good 
Christian.  He  meant  to  accompany  her  as  far 
as  the  town-barrier,  and  did  walk  beside  her 
cart  for  a  while,  but  he  stopped  suddenly  at  the 


MUMU 

Crimean    ford,  waved    his   hand,   and   walked 
away  along  the  riverside. 

It  was  getting  towards  evening.  He  walked 
slowly,  watching  the  water.  All  of  a  sudden 
he  fancied  something  was  floundering  in  the 
mud  close  to  the  bank.  He  stooped  over,  and 
saw  a  little  white-and-black  puppy,  who,  in 
spite  of  all  its  efforts,  could  not  get  out  of  the 
water  ;  it  was  struggling,  slipping  back,  and 
trembling  all  over  its  thin  wet  little  body. 
Gerasim  looked  at  the  unlucky  little  dog,  picked 
it  up  with  one  hand,  put  it  into  the  bosom  of 
his  coat,  and  hurried  with  long  steps  home- 
wards. He  went  into  his  garret,  put  the  rescued 
puppy  on  his  bed,  covered  it  with  his  thick 
overcoat,  ran  first  to  the  stable  for  straw,  and 
then  to  the  kitchen  for  a  cup  of  milk.  Care- 
fully folding  back  the  overcoat,  and  spreading 
out  the  straw,  he  set  the  milk  on  the  bedstead. 
The  poor  little  puppy  was  not  more  than  three 
weeks  old,  its  eyes  were  only  just  open — one 
eye  still  seemed  rather  larger  than  the  other  ; 
it  did  not  know  how  to  lap  out  of  a  cup,  and 
did  nothing  but  shiver  and  blink.  Gerasim 
took  hold  of  its  head  softly  with  two  fingers, 
and  dipped  its  little  nose  into  the  milk.  The 
pup  suddenly  began  lapping  greedily,  sniffing, 
shaking  itself,  and  choking.  Gerasim  watched 
and  watched  it,  and  all  at  once  he  laughed 
378 


MUMU 

outright.  .  .  .  All  night  long  he  was  wailing  on 
it,  keeping  it  covered,  and  rubbing  it  dry.  He 
fell  asleep  himself  at  last,  and  slept  quietly  and 
happily  by  its  side. 

No  naother  could  have  looked  after  her  baby 
as  Gerasim  looked  after  his  little  nursling.  At 
first,  she — for  the  pup  turned  out  to  be  a  bitch 
— was  very  weak,  feeble,  and  ugly,  but  by 
degrees  she  grew  stronger  and  improved  in 
looks,  and  thanks  to  the  unflagging  care  of  her 
preserver,  in  eight  months'  time  she  was  trans- 
formed into  a  very  pretty  dog  of  the  spaniel 
breed,  with  long  ears,  a  bushy  spiral  tail,  and 
large  expressive  eyes.  She  was  devotedly 
attached  to  Gerasim,  and  was  never  a  yard 
from  his  side  ;  she  always  followed  him  about 
wagging  her  tail.  He  had  even  given  her  a 
name — the  dumb  know  that  their  inarticulate 
noises  call  the  attention  of  others.  He  called 
her  Mumu.  All  the  servants  in  the  house  liked 
her,  and  called  her  Mumu,  too.  She  was  very 
intelligent,  she  was  friendly  with  every  one,  but 
was  only  fond  of  Gerasim.  Gerasim,  on  his 
side,  loved  her  passionately,  and  he  did  not 
like  it  when  other  people  stroked  her  ;  whether 
he  was  afraid  for  her,  or  jealous — God  knows  ! 
She  used  to  wake  him  in  the  morning,  pulling 
at  his  coat ;  she  used  to  take  the  reins  in  her 
mouth,  and  bring  him  up  the  old  horse  that 
379 


MUMU 

carried  the  water,  with  whom  she  was  on  very 
friendly  terms.  With  a  face  of  great  impor- 
tance, she  used  to  go  with  him  to  the  river  ; 
she  used  to  watch  his  brooms  and  spades,  and 
never  allowed  any  one  to  go  into  his  garret. 
He  cut  a  little  hole  in  his  door  on  purpose 
for  her,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  that  only  in 
Gerasim's  garret  she  was  completely  mistress 
and  at  home  ;  and  directly  she  went  in,  she 
used  to  jump  with  a  satisfied  air  upon  the  bed. 
At  night  she  did  not  sleep  at  all,  but  she  never 
barked  without  sufficient  cause,  like  some 
stupid  house-dog,  who,  sitting  on  its  hind-legs, 
blinking,  with  its  nose  in  the  air,  barks  simply 
from  dulness,  at  the  stars,  usually  three  times 
in  succession.  No !  Mumu's  delicate  little 
voice  was  never  raised  without  good  reason  ; 
either  some  stranger  was  passing  close  to  the 
fence,  or  there  was  some  suspicious  sound  or 
rustle  somewhere.  ...  In  fact,  she  was  an 
excellent  watch-dog.  It  is  true  that  there  was 
another  dog  in  the  yard,  a  tawny  old  dog  with 
brown  spots,  called  Wolf,  but  he  was  never, 
even  at  night,  let  off  the  chain  ;  and,  indeed, 
he  was  so  decrepit  that  he  did  not  even  wish 
for  freedom.  He  used  to  lie  curled  up  in  his 
kennel,  and  only  rarely  uttered  a  sleepy,  almost 
noiseless  bark,  which  broke  off  at  once,  as 
though  he  were  himself  aware  of  its  uselessness. 
380 


MUMU 

Mumu  never  went  into  the  mistress's  house ; 
and  when  Gerasim  carried  wood  into  the  rooms, 
she  always  stayed  behind,  impatiently  waiting 
for  him  at  the  steps,  pricking  up  her  ears  and 
turning  her  head  to  right  and  to  left  at  the 
slightest  creak  of  the  door.   .  .   . 

So  passed  another  year.  Gerasim  went  on 
performing  his  duties  as  house-porter,  and  was 
very  well  content  with  his  lot,  when  suddenly 
an  unexpected  incident  occurred.  .  .  .  One  fine 
summer  day  the  old  lady  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  drawing-room  with  her  dependants. 
She  was  in  high  spirits  ;  she  laughed  and  made 
jokes.  Her  servile  companions  laughed  and 
joked  too,  but  they  did  not  feel  particularly 
mirthful  ;  the  household  did  not  much  like  it, 
when  their  mistress  was  in  a  lively  mood,  for, 
to  begin  with,  she  expected  from  every  one 
prompt  and  complete  participation  in  her  merri- 
ment, and  was  furious  if  any  one  showed  a  face 
that  did  not  beam  with  delight,  and  secondly, 
these  outbursts  never  lasted  long  with  her,  and 
were  usually  followed  by  a  sour  and  gloomy 
mood.  That  day  she  had  got  up  in  a  lucky 
hour  ;  at  cards  she  took  the  four  knaves,  which 
means  the  fulfilment  of  one's  wishes  (she  used 
to  try  her  fortune  on  the  cards  every  morning), 
and  her  tea  struck  her  as  particularly  delicious, 
for  which  her  maid  was  rewarded  by  words  of 
381 


MUMU 

praise,  and  by  twopence  in  money.  With  a 
sweet  smile  on  her  wrinkled  lips,  the  lady 
walked  about  the  drawing-room  and  went  up 
to  the  window.  A  flower-garden  had  been  laid 
out  before  the  window,  and  in  the  very  middle 
bed,  under  a  rose-bush,  lay  Mumu  busily  gnaw- 
ing a  bone.     The  lady  caught  sight  of  her. 

'  Mercy  on  us  ! '  she  cried  suddenly  ;  '  what 
dog  is  that  ?  ' 

The  companion,  addressed  by  the  old  lady, 
hesitated,  poor  thing,  in  that  wretched  state  of 
uneasiness  which  is  common  in  any  person  in 
a  dependent  position  who  doesn't  know  very 
well  what  significance  to  give  to  the  exclama- 
tion of  a  superior. 

*  I  d  .  .  .  d  .  .  .  don't  know,'  she  faltered : 
*  I  fancy  it 's  the  dumb  man's  dog.' 

*  Mercy  ! '  the  lady  cut  her  short :  *  but  it 's  a 
charming  little  dog !  order  it  to  be  brought  in. 
Has  he  had  it  long  ?  How  is  it  I  've  never 
seen  it  before  ?  .  .  .   Order  it  to  be  brought  in.' 

The  companion  flew  at  once  into  the  hall. 
'Boy,  boy!'  she  shouted:  'bring  Mumu  in 
at  once  !     She 's  in  the  flower-garden.' 

*  Her  name 's  Mumu  then,'  observed  the  lady  : 
'  a  very  nice  name.' 

'  Oh,  very,  indeed ! '  chimed  in  the  com- 
panion.    '  Make  haste,  Stepan  ! ' 

Stepan,  a  sturdily-built  young  fellow,  whose 
382 


MUMU 

duties  were  those  of  a  footman,  rushed  head- 
long into  the  flower-garden,  and  tried  to  capture 
Mumu,  but  she  cleverly  slipped  from  his  fingers, 
and  with  her  tail  in  the  air,  fled  full  speed  to 
Gerasim,  who  was  at  that  instant  in  the  kitchen, 
knocking  out  and  cleaning  a  barrel,  turning  it 
upside  down  in  his  hands  like  a  child's  drum. 
Stepan  ran  after  her,  and  tried  to  catch  her  just 
at  her  master's  feet ;  but  the  sensible  dog  would 
not  let  a  stranger  touch  her,  and  with  a  bound, 
she  got  away.  Gerasim  looked  on  with  a  smile 
at  all  this  ado ;  at  last,  Stepan  got  up,  much 
amazed,  and  hurriedly  explained  to  him  by 
signs  that  the  mistress  wanted  the  dog  brought 
in  to  her.  Gerasim  was  a  little  astonished  ;  he 
called  Mumu,  however,  picked  her  up,  and 
handed  her  over  to  Stepan.  Stepan  carried  her 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  put  her  down  on 
the  parquette  floor.  The  old  lady  began  call- 
ing the  dog  to  her  in  a  coaxing  voice.  Mumu, 
who  had  never  in  her  life  been  in  such 
magnificent  apartments,  was  very  much 
frightened,  and  made  a  rush  for  the  door,  but, 
being  driven  back  by  the  obsequious  Stepan, 
she  began  trembling,  and  huddled  close  up 
against  the  wall. 

*  Mumu,  Mumu,  come  to  me,  come  to  your 
mistress,'  said  the  lady  ;  *  come,  silly  thing  .  .  . 
don't  be  afraid.' 

383 


MUMU 

*  Come,  Mumu,  come  to  the  mistress,'  repeated 
the  companions.     *  Come  along  ! ' 

But  Mumu  looked  round  her  uneasily,  and 
did  not  stir. 

'  Bring  her  something  to  eat,'  said  the  old 
lady.  '  How  stupid  she  is  !  she  won't  come  to 
her  mistress.     What 's  she  afraid  of?  ' 

*  She's  not  used  to  your  honour  yet,'  ven- 
tured one  of  the  companions  in  a  timid  and 
conciliatory  voice. 

Stepan  brought  in  a  saucer  of  milk,  and  set 
it  down  before  Mumu,  but  Mumu  would  not 
even  sniff  at  the  milk,  and  still  shivered,  and 
looked  round  as  before. 

'  Ah,  what  a  silly  you  are ! '  said  the  lady, 
and  going  up  to  her,  she  stooped  down,  and  was 
about  to  stroke  her,  but  Mumu  turned  her  head 
abruptly,  and  showed  her  teeth.  The  lady 
hurriedly  drew  back  her  hand.  .  .  . 

A  momentary  silence  followed.  Mumu  gave 
a  faint  whine,  as  though  she  would  complain 
and  apologise.  .  .  .  The  old  lady  moved  back, 
scowling.  The  dog's  sudden  movement  had 
frightened  her. 

'  Ah  ! '  shrieked  all  the  companions  at  once, 
'  she 's  not  bitten  you,  has  she  ?  Heaven  forbid  ! 
(Mumu  had  never  bitten  any  one  in  her  life.) 
Ah!  ah!' 

'  Take  her  away,'  said  the  old  lady  in  a 
384 


MUMU 

changed  voice.  '  Wretched  little  dog !  What 
a  spiteful  creature  !  ' 

And,  turning  round  deliberately,  she  went 
towards  her  boudoir.  Her  companions  looked 
timidly  at  one  another,  and  were  about  to 
follow  her,  but  she  stopped,  stared  coldly  at 
them,  and  said,  *  What 's  that  for,  pray  ?  I  've 
not  called  you,'  and  went  out. 

The  companions  waved  their  hands  to 
Stepan  in  despair.  He  picked  up  Mumu,  and 
flung  her  promptly  outside  the  door,  just  at 
Gerasim's  feet,  and  half-an-hour  later  a  profound 
stillness  reigned  in  the  house,  and  the  old  lady 
sat  on  her  sofa  looking  blacker  than  a  thunder- 
cloud. 

What  trifles,  if  you  think  of  it,  will  some- 
times disturb  any  one ! 

Till  evening  the  lady  was  out  of  humour; 
she  did  not  talk  to  any  one,  did  not  play  cards, 
and  passed  a  bad  night.  She  fancied  the  eau- 
de-Cologne  they  gave  her  was  not  the  same  as 
she  usually  had,  and  that  her  pillow  smelt  of 
soap,  and  she  made  the  wardrobe-maid  smell 
all  the  bed  linen — in  fact  she  was  very  upset 
and  cross  altogether.  Next  morning  she 
ordered  Gavrila  to  be  summoned  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual. 

'  Tell  me,  please,'  she  began,  directly  the 
latter,  not  without  some  inward  trepidation, 
2  B  ^8; 


MUMU 

crossed  the  threshold  of  her  boudoir,  *  what 
dog  was  that  barking  all  night  in  our  yard  ? 
It  wouldn't  let  me  sleep  ! ' 

*  A  dog,  'm  .  .  .  what  dog,  'm  .  .  .  may  be,  the 
dumb  man's  dog,  'm,'  he  brought  out  in  a  rather 
unsteady  voice. 

'  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  dumb  man's 
or  whose,  but  it  wouldn't  let  me  sleep.  And  I 
wonder  what  we  have  such  a  lot  of  dogs  for  ! 
I  wish  to  know.  We  have  a  yard  dog,  haven't 
we?' 

'  Oh  yes,  'm,  we  have,  'm.     Wolf,  'm.' 

'  Well,  why  more,  what  do  we  want  more 
dogs  for?  It's  simply  introducing  disorder. 
There's  no  one  in  control  in  the  house — 
that's  what  it  is.  And  what  does  the  dumb 
man  want  with  a  dog  ?  Who  gave  him  leave 
to  keep  dogs  in  my  yard  ?  Yesterday  I  went 
to  the  window,  and  there  it  was  lying  in  the 
flower  -  garden ;  it  had  dragged  in  some 
nastiness  it  was  gnawing,  and  my  roses  are 
planted  there.  .  .  .' 

The  lady  ceased. 

'  Let  her  be  gone  from  to-day  ...  do  you 
hear  ? ' 

'Yes, 'm.' 

*  To-day.  Now  go.  I  will  send  for  you 
later  for  the  report' 

Gavrila  went  away. 

386 


MUMU 

As  he  went  through  the  drawing-room,  the 
steward  by  way  of  maintaining  order  moved  a 
bell  from  one  table  to  another  ;  he  stealthily 
blew  his  duck-like  nose  in  the  hall,  and  went 
into  the  outer-hall.  In  the  outer-hall,  on  a 
locker  was  Stepan  asleep  in  the  attitude  of  a 
slain  warrior  in  a  battalion  picture,  his  bare  legs 
thrust  out  below  the  coat  which  served  him  for 
a  blanket.  The  steward  gave  him  a  shove,  and 
whispered  some  instructions  to  him,  to  which 
Stepan  responded  with  something  between  a 
yawn  and  a  laugh.  The  steward  went  away, 
and  Stepan  got  up,  put  on  his  coat  and  his 
boots,  went  out  and  stood  on  the  steps.  Five 
minutes  had  not  passed  before  Gerasim  made 
his  appearance  with  a  huge  bundle  of  hewn  logs 
on  his  back,  accompanied  by  the  inseparable 
Mumu.  (The  lady  had  given  orders  that  her 
bedroom  and  boudoir  should  be  heated  at  times 
even  in  the  summer.)  Gerasim  turned  sideways 
before  the  door,  shoved  it  open  with  his 
shoulder,  and  stag-fjered  into  the  house  with 
his  load.  Mumu,  as  usual,  stayed  behind  to 
wait  for  him.  Then  Stepan,  seizing  his  chance, 
suddenly  pounced  on  her,  like  a  kite  on  a 
chicken,  held  her  down  to  the  ground,  gathered 
her  up  in  his  arms,  and  without  even  putting 
on  his  cap,  ran  out  of  the  yard  with  her,  got 
into  the  first  fly  he  met,  and  galloped  off  to  a 
387 


MUMU 

market-place.  There  he  soon  found  a  pur- 
chaser, to  whom  he  sold  her  for  a  shilling,  on 
condition  that  he  would  keep  her  for  at  least  a 
week  tied  up  ;  then  he  returned  at  once.  But 
before  he  got  home,  he  got  off  the  fly,  and  going 
right  round  the  yard,  jumped  over  the  fence 
into  the  yard  from  a  back  street.  He  was 
afraid  to  go  in  at  the  gate  for  fear  of  meeting 
Gerasim. 

His  anxiety  was  unnecessary,  however ; 
Gerasim  was  no  longer  in  the  yard.  On 
coming  out  of  the  house  he  had  at  once  missed 
Mumu.  He  never  remembered  her  failing  to 
wait  for  his  return,  and  began  running  up  and 
down,  looking  for  her,  and  calling  her  in  his 
own  way.  .  .  .  He  rushed  up  to  his  garret,  up 
to  the  hay-loft,  ran  out  into  the  street,  this  way 
and  that.  .  .  .  She  was  lost !  He  turned  to  the 
other  serfs,  with  the  most  despairing  signs, 
questioned  them  about  her,  pointing  to  her 
height  from  the  ground,  describing  her  with  his 
hands.  .  .  .  Some  of  them  really  did  not  know 
what  had  become  of  Mumu,  and  merely  shook 
their  heads,  others  did  know,  and  smiled  to  him 
for  all  response,  while  the  steward  assumed  an 
important  air,  and  began  scolding  the  coach- 
men. Then  Gerasim  ran  right  away  out  of  the 
yard. 

It  was  dark  by  the  time  he  came  back. 
388 


MUMU 

From  his  worn-out  look,  his  unsteady  walk, 
and  his  dusty  clothes,  it  might  be  surmised  that 
he  had  been  running  over  half  Moscow.  He 
stood  still  opposite  the  windows  of  the  mistress' 
house,  took  a  searching  look  at  the  steps  where 
a  group  of  house-serfs  were  crowded  together, 
turned  away,  and  uttered  once  more  his  inar- 
ticulate '  Mumu.'  Mumu  did  not  answer.  He 
went  away.  Every  one  looked  after  him,  but 
no  one  smiled  or  said  a  word,  and  the  inquisi- 
tive postillion  Antipka  reported  next  morning 
in  the  kitchen  that  the  dumb  man  had  been 
groaning  all  night. 

All  the  next  day  Gerasim  did  not  show  him- 
self, so  that  they  were  obliged  to  send  the 
coachman  Potap  for  water  instead  of  him,  at 
which  the  coachman  Potap  was  anything  but 
pleased.  The  lady  asked  Gavrila  if  her  orders 
had  been  carried  out.  Gavrila  replied  that  they 
had.  The  next  rnorning  Gerasim  came  out  of 
his  garret,  and  went  about  his  work.  He  came 
in  to  his  dinner,  ate  it,  and  went  out  again, 
without  a  greeting  to  any  one.  His  face,  which 
had  always  been  lifeless,  as  with  all  deaf-mutes, 
seemed  now  to  be  turned  to  stone.  After 
dinner  he  went  out  of  the  yard  again,  but  not 
for  long;  he  came  back,  and  went  straight  up 
to  the  hay-loft.  Night  came  on,  a  clear  moon- 
light night.  Gerasim  lay  breathing  heavily, 
389 


MUMU 

and  incessantly  turning  from  side  to  side. 
Suddenly  he  felt  something  pull  at  the  skirt  of 
his  coat.  He  started,  but  did  not  raise  his 
head,  and  even  shut  his  eyes  tighter.  But 
again  there  was  a  pull,  stronger  than  before  ; 
he  jumped  up  .  .  .  before  him,  with  an  end  of 
string  round  her  neck,  was  Mumu,  twisting  and 
turning.  A  prolonged  cry  of  delight  broke 
from  his  speechless  breast ;  he  caught  up 
Mumu,  and  hugged  her  tight  in  his  arms,  she 
licked  his  nose  and  eyes,  and  beard  and 
moustache,  all  in  one  instant.  .  .  .  He  stood  a 
little,  thought  a  minute,  crept  cautiously  down 
from  the  hay-loft,  looked  round,  and  having 
satisfied  himself  that  no  one  could  see  him, 
made  his  way  successfully  to  his  garret. 
Gerasim  had  guessed  before  that  his  dog  had 
not  got  lost  by  her  own  doing,  that  she  must 
have  been  taken  away  by  the  mistress'  orders  ; 
the  servants  had  explained  to  him  by  signs 
that  his  Mumu  had  snapped  at  her,  and  he 
determined  to  take  his  own  measures.  First 
he  fed  Mumu  with  a  bit  of  bread,  fondled  her, 
and  put  her  to  bed,  then  he  fell  to  meditating, 
and  spent  the  whole  night  long  in  meditating 
how  he  could  best  conceal  her.  At  last  he 
decided  to  leave  her  all  day  in  the  garret,  and 
only  to  come  in  now  and  then  to  see  her,  and 
to  take  her  out  at  night  The  hole  in  the  door 
390 


MUMU 

he  stopped  up  effectually  with  his  old  over- 
coat, and  almost  before  it  was  light  he  was 
already  in  the  yard,  as  though  nothing  had 
happened,  even — innocent  guile  ! — the  same 
expression  of  melancholy  on  his  face.  It  did 
not  even  occur  to  the  poor  deaf  man  that 
Mumu  would  betray  herself  by  her  whining  ;  in 
reality,  every  one  in  the  house  was  soon  aware 
that  the  dumb  man's  dog  had  come  back,  and 
was  locked  up  in  his  garret,  but  from  sympathy 
with  him  and  with  her,  and  partly,  perhaps, 
from  dread  of  him,  they  did  not  let  him  know 
that  they  had  found  out  his  secret.  The 
steward  scratched  his  hand,  and  gave  a  despair- 
ing wave  of  his  hand,  as  much  as  to  say,  'Well, 
well,  God  have  mercy  on  him !  If  only  it 
doesn't  come  to  the  mistress'  ears  ! ' 

But  the  dumb  man  had  never  shown  such 
energy  as  on  that  day  ;  he  cleaned  and  scraped 
the  whole  courtyard,  pulled  up  every  single 
weed  with  his  own  hand,  tugged  up  every  stake 
in  the  fence  of  the  flower-garden,  to  satisfy 
himself  that  they  were  strong  enough,  and 
unaided  drove  them  in  again  ;  in  fact,  he  toiled 
and  laboured  so  that  even  the  old  lady  noticed 
his  zeal.  Twice  in  the  course  of  the  day 
Gerasim  went  stealthily  in  to  see  his  prisoner ; 
when  night  came  on,  he  lay  down  to  sleep  with 
her  in  the  garret,  not  in  the  hay-loft,  and  only 
391 


MUMU 

at  two  o'clock  in  the  night  he  went  out  to  take 
her  a  turn  in  the  fresh  air.  After  walking  about 
the  courtyard  a  good  while  with  her,  he  was 
just  turning  back,  when  suddenly  a  rustle  was 
heard  behind  the  fence  on  the  side  of  the  back 
street.  Mumu  pricked  up  her  ears,  growled — 
went  up  to  the  fence,  sniffed,  and  gave  vent  to  a 
loud  shrill  bark.  Some  drunkard  had  thought 
fit  to  take  refuge  under  the  fence  for  the  night. 
At  that  very  time  the  old  lady  had  just  fallen 
asleep  after  a  prolonged  fit  of  '  nervous  agita- 
tion '  ;  these  fits  of  agitation  always  overtook 
her  after  too  hearty  a  supper.  The  sudden 
bark  waked  her  up :  her  heart  palpitated,  and 
she  felt  faint.  '  Girls,  girls ! '  she  moaned. 
'  Girls  ! '  The  terrified  maids  ran  into  her  bed- 
room. '  Oh,  oh,  I  am  dying ! '  she  said,  fling- 
ing her  arms  about  in  her  agitation.  '  Again, 
that  dog  again  !  .  .  .  Oh,  send  for  the  doctor. 
They  mean  to  be  the  death  of  me.  .  .  .  The 
dog,  the  dog  again  !  Oh  ! '  And  she  let  her 
head  fall  back,  which  always  signified  a  swoon. 
They  rushed  for  the  doctor,  that  is,  for  the 
household  physician,  Hariton.  This  doctor, 
whose  whole  qualification  consisted  in  wearing 
soft-soled  boots,  knew  how  to  feel  the  pulse 
delicately.  He  used  to  sleep  fourteen  hours 
out  of  the  twenty-four,  but  the  rest  of  the  time 
he  was  always  sighing,  and  continually  dosing 
392 


MUMU 

the  old  lady  with  cherrybay  drops.  This  doctor 
ran  up  at  once,  fumigated  the  room  with  burnt 
feathers,  and  when  the  old  lady  opened  her 
eyes,  promptly  offered  her  a  wineglass  of  the 
hallowed  drops  on  a  silver  tray.  The  old  lady 
took  them,  but  began  again  at  once  in  a  tearful 
voice  complaining  of  the  dog,  of  Gavrila,  and 
of  her  fate,  declaring  that  she  was  a  poor  old 
woman,  and  that  every  one  had  forsaken  her, 
no  one  pitied  her,  every  one  wished  her  dead. 
Meanwhile  the  luckless  Mumu  had  gone  on 
barking,  while  Gerasim  tried  in  vain  to  call  her 
away  from  the  fence.  'There  .  .  .  there  .  .  . 
again,'  groaned  the  old  lady,  and  once  more  she 
turned  up  the  whites  of  her  eyes.  The  doctor 
whispered  to  a  maid,  she  rushed  into  the  outer- 
hall,  and  shook  Stepan,  he  ran  to  wake  Gavrila, 
Gavrila  in  a  fury  ordered  the  whole  household 
to  get  up. 

Gerasim  turned  round,  saw  lights  and 
shadows  moving  in  the  windows,  and  with  an 
instinct  of  coming  trouble  in  his  heart,  put 
Mumu  under  his  arm,  ran  into  his  garret,  and 
locked  himself  in.  A  few  minutes  later  five 
men  were  banging  at  his  door,  but  feeling  the 
resistance  of  the  bolt,  they  stopped.  Gavrila 
ran  up  in  a  fearful  state  of  mind,  and  ordered 
them  all  to  wait  there  and  watch  till  morning. 
Then  he  flew  off  himself  to  the  maids'  quarter, 
393 


MUMU 

and  through  an  old  companion,  Liubov  Liu- 
bimovna,  with  whose  assistance  he  used  to  steal 
tea,  sugar,  and  other  groceries  and  to  falsify 
the  accounts,  sent  word  to  the  mistress  that  the 
dog  had  unhappily  run  back  from  somewhere, 
but  that  to-morrow  she  should  be  killed,  and 
would  the  mistress  be  so  gracious  as  not  to  be 
angry  and  to  overlook  it.  The  old  lady  would 
probably  not  have  been  so  soon  appeased,  but 
the  doctor  had  in  his  haste  given  her  fully  forty 
drops  instead  of  twelve.  The  strong  dose  of 
narcotic  acted  ;  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  old 
lady  was  in  a  sound  and  peaceful  sleep;  while 
Gerasim  was  lying  with  a  white  face  on  his 
bed,  holding  Mumu's  mouth  tightly  shut. 

Next  morning  the  lady  woke  up  rather  late. 
Gavrila  was  waiting  till  she  should  be  awake, 
to  give  the  order  for  a  final  assault  on  Gerasim's 
stronghold,  while  he  prepared  himself  to  face  a 
fearful  storm.  But  the  storm  did  not  come  off. 
The  old  lady  lay  in  bed  and  sent  for  the  eldest 
of  her  dependent  companions. 

'Liubov  Liubimovna,'  she  began  in  a  subdued 
weak  voice — she  was  fond  of  playing  the  part 
of  an  oppressed  and  forsaken  victim  ;  needless 
to  say,  every  one  in  the  house  was  made  ex- 
tremely uncomfortable  at  such  times — '  Liubov 
Liubimovna,  you  see  my  position  ;  go,  my  love 
to  Gavrila  Andrcitch,  and  talk  to  him  a  little 
394 


MUMU 

Can  he  really  prize  some  wretched  cur  above 
the  repose — the  very  life — of  his  mistress  ?  I 
could  not  bear  to  think  so,'  she  added,  with  an 
expression  of  deep  feeling.  '  Go,  my  love ;  be 
so  good  as  to  go  to  Gavrila  Andreitch  for  me.' 

Liubov  Liubimovna  went  to  Gavrila's  room. 
What  conversation  passed  between  them  is  not 
known,  but  a  short  time  after,  a  whole  crowd  of 
people  was  moving  across  the  yard  in  the 
direction  of  Gerasim's  garret.  Gavrila  walked 
in  front,  holding  his  cap  on  with  his  hand, 
though  there  was  no  wind.  The  footmen  and 
cooks  were  close  behind  him  ;  Uncle  Tail  was 
looking  out  of  a  window,  giving  instructions, 
that  is  to  say,  simply  waving  his  hands.  At 
the  rear  there  was  a  crowd  of  small  boys  skip- 
ping and  hopping  along ;  half  of  them  were 
outsiders  who  had  run  up.  On  the  narrow 
staircase  leading  to  the  garret  sat  one  guard  ; 
at  the  door  were  standing  two  more  with  sticks. 
They  began  to  mount  the  stairs,  which  they  en- 
tirely blocked  up.  Gavrila  went  up  to  the  door, 
knocked  with  his  fist,  shouting, '  Open  the  door  ! ' 

A  stifled  bark  was  audible,  but  there  was  no 
answer. 

*  Open  the  door,  I  tell  you,'  he  repeated. 

'But,  Gavrila  Andreitch,'  Stepan  observed 
from  below, 'he's  deaf,  you  know — he  doesn't 
hear.' 

395 


MUMU 

They  all  laughed. 

*What  are  we  to  do?'  Gavrila  rejoined  from 
above. 

'  Why,  there 's  a  hole  there  in  the  door,'  an- 
swered Stepan, '  so  you  shake  the  stick  in  there.' 

Gavrila  bent  down. 

*  He 's  stuffed  it  up  with  a  coat  or  something.' 

*  Well,  you  just  push  the  coat  in.' 

At  this  moment  a  smothered  bark  was  heard 
again. 

*  See,  see — she  speaks  for  herself,'  was  re- 
marked in  the  crowd,  and  again  they  laughed. 

Gavrila  scratched  his  ear. 

*  No,  mate,'  he  responded  at  last,  '  you  can 
poke  the  coat  in  yourself,  if  you  like.' 

*  All  right,  let  me.' 

And  Stepan  scrambled  up,  took  the  stick, 
pushed  in  the  coat,  and  began  waving  the  stick 
about  in  the  opening,  saying,  '  Come  out,  come 
out ! '  as  he  did  so.  He  was  still  waving  the 
stick,  when  suddenly  the  door  of  the  garret  was 
flung  open  ;  all  the  crowd  flew  pell-mell  down 
the  stairs  instantly,  Gavrila  first  of  all.  Uncle 
Tail  locked  the  window. 

'Come,  come,  come,'  shouted  Gavrila  from  the 
yard, '  mind  what  you  're  about' 

Gerasim  stood  without  stirring  in  his  door- 
way. The  crowd  gathered  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  Gerasim,  with  his  arms  akimbo,  looked 
396 


MUMU 

down  at  all  these  poor  creatures  in  German 
coats  ;  in  his  red  peasant's  shirt  he  looked  like 
a  giant  before  them.  Gavrila  took  a  step  for- 
ward. 

*  Mind,  mate,'  said  he,  '  don't  be  insolent.' 

And  he  began  to  explain  to  him  by  signs 
that  the  mistress  insists  on  having  his  dog ; 
that  he  must  hand  it  over  at  once,  or  it  would 
be  the  worse  for  him. 

Gerasim  looked  at  him,  pointed  to  the  dog, 
made  a  motion  with  his  hand  round  his  neck, 
as  though  he  were  pulling  a  noose  tight,  and 
glanced  with  a  face  of  inquiry  at  the  steward. 

'Yes,  yes,'  the  latter  assented,  nodding;  'yes, 
just  so.' 

Gerasim  dropped  his  eyes,  then  all  of  a 
sudden  roused  himself  and  pointed  to  Mumu, 
who  was  all  the  while  standing  beside  him, 
innocently  wagging  her  tail  and  pricking  up 
her  ears  inquisitively.  Then  he  repeated  the 
strangling  action  round  his  neck  and  signifi- 
cantly struck  himself  on  the  breast,  as  though 
announcing  he  would  take  upon  himself  the 
task  of  killing  Mumu. 

'  But  you  41  deceive  us,'  Gavrila  waved  back 
in  response. 

Gerasim  looked  at  him,  smiled  scornfully, 
struck  himself  again  on  the  breast,  and 
slammed-to  the  door. 

397 


MUMU 

They  all  looked  at  one  another  in  silence. 

'  What  does  that  mean  ? '  Gavrila  began. 
'  He 's  locked  himself  in.' 

'  Let  him  be,  Gavrila  Andreitch,'  Stepan 
advised;  'he'll  do  it  if  he's  promised.  He's 
like  that,  you  know.  ...  If  he  makes  a  pro- 
mise, it's  a  certain  thing.  He's  not  like  us 
others  in  that.  The  truth's  the  truth  with 
him.     Yes,  indeed.' 

'  Yes,'  they  all  repeated,  nodding  their  heads, 
'  yes — that 's  so — yes.' 

Uncle  Tail  opened  his  window,  and  he  too 
said,  *  Yes.' 

'Well,  may  be,  we  shall  see,'  responded 
Gavrila ;  '  any  way,  we  won't  take  off  the 
guard.  Here  you,  Eroshka ! '  he  added,  ad- 
dressing a  poor  fellow  in  a  yellow  nankeen  coat, 
who  considered  himself  to  be  a  gardener, '  what 
have  you  to  do?  Take  a  stick  and  sit  here, 
and  if  anything  happens,  run  to  me  at  once  ! ' 

Eroshka  took  a  stick,  and  sat  down  on  the 
bottom  stair.  The  crowd  dispersed,  all  except 
a  few  inquisitive  small  boys,  while  Gavrila  went 
home  and  sent  word  through  Liubov  Liubi- 
movna  to  the  mistress,  that  everything  had  been 
done,  while  he  sent  a  postillion  for  a  policeman 
in  case  of  need.  The  old  lady  tied  a  knot  in  her 
handkerchief,  sprinkled  some  eau-de-Cologne 
on  it,  sniffed  at  it,  and  rubbed  her  temples  with 
39S 


MUMU 

it,  drank  some  tea,  and,  being  still  under  the 
influence  of  the  cherrybay  drops,  fell  asleep 
again. 

An  hour  after  all  this  hubbub  the  garret  door 
opened,  and  Gerasim  showed  himself.  He 
had  on  his  best  coat ;  he  was  leading  Mumu 
by  a  string.  Eroshka  moved  aside  and  let 
him  pass.  Gerasim  went  to  the  gates.  All 
the  small  boys  in  the  yard  stared  at  him  in 
silence.  He  did  not  even  turn  round  ;  he  only 
put  his  cap  on  in  the  street.  Gavrila  sent  the 
same  Eroshka  to  follow  him  and  keep  watch  on 
him  as  a  spy.  Eroshka,  seeing  from  a  distance 
that  he  had  gone  into  a  cookshop  with  his  dog, 
waited  for  him  to  come  out  again. 

Gerasim  was  well  known  at  the  cookshop, 
and  his  signs  were  understood.  He  asked  for 
cabbage  soup  with  meat  in  it,  and  sat  down 
with  his  arms  on  the  table.  Mumu  stood 
beside  his  chair,  looking  calmly  at  him  with 
her  intelligent  eyes.  Her  coat  was  glossy ; 
one  could  see  she  had  just  been  combed 
down.  They  brought  Gerasim  the  soup.  He 
crumbled  some  bread  into  it,  cut  the  meat 
up  small,  and  put  the  plate  on  the  ground. 
Mumu  began  eating  in  her  usual  refined 
way,  her  little  muzzle  daintily  held  so  as 
scarcely  to  touch  her  food.  Gerasim  gazed 
a  long  while  at  her ;  two  big  tears  suddenly 
399 


MUMU 

rolled  from  his  eyes ;  one  fell  on  the  dog's 
brow,  the  other  into  the  soup.  He  shaded 
his  face  with  his  hand.  Mumu  ate  up  half 
the  plateful,  and  came  away  from  it,  licking 
her  lips.  Gerasim  got  up,  paid  for  the  soup, 
and  went  out,  followed  by  the  rather  perplexed 
glances  of  the  waiter.  Eroshka,  seeing  Gerasim, 
hid  round  a  corner,  and  letting  him  get  in  front, 
followed  him  again. 

Gerasim  walked  without  haste,  still  holding 
Mumu  by  a  string.  When  he  got  to  the  corner 
of  the  street,  he  stood  still  as  though  reflecting, 
and  suddenly  set  off  with  rapid  steps  to  the 
Crimean  Ford.  On  the  way  he  went  into  the 
yard  of  a  house,  where  a  lodge  was  being  built, 
and  carried  away  two  bricks  under  his  arm. 
At  the  Crimean  Ford,  he  turned  along  the  bank, 
went  to  a  place  where  there  were  two  little 
rowing-boats  fastened  to  stakes  (he  had  noticed 
them  there  before),  and  jumped  into  one  of 
them  with  Mumu.  A  lame  old  man  came  out 
of  a  shed  in  the  corner  of  a  kitchen-garden 
and  shouted  after  him;  but  Gerasim  only 
nodded,  and  began  rowing  so  vigorously, 
though  against  stream,  that  in  an  instant 
he  had  darted  two  hundred  yards  away.  The 
old  man  stood  for  a  while,  scratched  his  back 
first  with  the  left  and  then  with  the  right  hand, 
and  went  back  hobbling  to  the  shed. 
400 


MUMU 

Gerasim  rowed  on  and  on.  Moscow  was 
soon  left  behind.  Meadows  stretched  each 
side  of  the  bank,  market  gardens,  fields,  and 
copses ;  peasants'  huts  began  to  make  their 
appearance.  There  was  the  fragrance  of  the 
country.  He  threw  down  his  oars,  bent  his 
head  down  to  Mumu,  who  was  sitting  facing 
him  on  a  dry  cross  seat — the  bottom  of  the 
boat  was  full  of  water — and  stayed  motionless, 
his  mighty  hands  clasped  upon  her  back,  while 
the  boat  was  gradually  carried  back  by  the 
current  towards  the  town.  At  last  Gerasim 
drew  himself  up  hurriedly,  with  a  sort  of  sick 
anger  in  his  face,  he  tied  up  the  bricks  he  had 
taken  with  string,  made  a  running  noose,  put 
it  round  Mumu's  neck,  lifted  her  up  over  the 
river,  and  for  the  last  time  looked  at  her.  .  .  . 
she  watched  him  confidingly  and  without  any 
fear,  faintly  wagging  her  tail.  He  turned  away, 
frowned,  and  wrung  his  hands.  .  .  .  Gerasim 
heard  nothing,  neither  the  quick  shrill  whine 
of  Mumu  as  she  fell,  nor  the  heavy  splash  of 
the  water  ;  for  him  the  noisiest  day  was  sound- 
less and  silent  as  even  the  stillest  night  is  not 
silent  to  us.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  again, 
little  wavelets  were  hurrying  over  the  river, 
chasing  one  another ;  as  before  they  broke 
against  the  boat's  side,  and  only  far  away 
behind  wide  circles  moved  widening  to  the  bank. 
2  c  401 


MUMU 

Directly  Gerasim  had  vanishedfrom  Eroshka's 
sight,  the  latter  returned  home  and  reported 
what  he  had  seen. 

'Well,  then,'  observed  Stepan,  'he'll  drown 
her.  Now  we  can  feel  easy  about  it.  If  he 
once  promises  a  thing.  .  .  .' 

No  one  saw  Gerasim  during  the  day.  He 
did  not  have  dinner  at  home.  Evening  came 
on  ;  they  were  all  gathered  together  to  supper, 
except  him. 

'  What  a  strange  creature  that  Gerasim  is ! ' 
piped  a  fat  laundrymaid ;  *  fancy,  upsetting 
himself  like  that  over  a  dog.  .  .  .  Upon  my 
word ! ' 

'  But  Gerasim  has  been  here,'  Stepan  cried 
all  at  once,  scraping  up  his  porridge  with  a 
spoon. 

*  How  ?  when  ? ' 

'Why,  a  couple  of  hours  ago.  Yes,  indeed  ! 
I  ran  against  him  at  the  gate ;  he  was  going 
out  again  from  here;  he  was  coming  out  of 
the  yard.  I  tried  to  ask  him  about  his  dog, 
but  he  wasn't  in  the  best  of  humours,  I  could 
see.  Well,  he  gave  me  a  shove  ;  I  suppose  he 
only  meant  to  put  me  out  of  his  way,  as  if 
he  'd  say,  "  Let  me  go,  do  !  "  but  he  fetched  me 
such  a  crack  on  my  neck,  so  seriously,  that — 
oh  !  oh ! '  And  Stepan,  who  could  not  help 
laughing,  shrugged  up  and  rubbed  the  back  of 
402 


MUMU 

his  head.  '  Yes,'  he  added  ;  '  he  has  got  a  fist ; 
it 's  something  like  a  fist,  there  's  no  denying 
that ! ' 

They  all  laughed  at  Stepan,  and  after  supper 
they  separated  to  go  to  bed. 

Meanwhile,  at  that  very  time,  a  gigantic 
figure  with  a  bag  on  his  shoulders  and  a  stick 
in    his    hand,   was    eagerly    and    persistently 

stepping  out  along  the  T highroad.      It 

was  Gerasim.  He  was  hurrying  on  without 
looking  round  ;  hurrying  homewards,  to  his 
own  village,  to  his  own  country.  After  drown- 
ing poor  Mumu,  he  had  run  back  to  his  garret, 
hurriedly  packed  a  few  things  together  in  an 
old  horsecloth,  tied  it  up  in  a  bundle,  tossed 
it  on  his  shoulder,  and  so  was  ready.  He  had 
noticed  the  road  carefully  when  he  was  brought 
to  Moscow  ;  the  village  his  mistress  had  taken 
him  from  lay  only  about  twenty  miles  off  the 
highroad.  He  walked  along  it  with  a  sort  of 
invincible  purpose,  a  desperate  and  at  the 
same  time  joyous  determination.  He  walked, 
his  shoulders  thrown  back  and  his  chest  ex- 
panded ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  greedily  straight 
before  him.  He  hastened  as  though  his  old 
mother  were  waiting  for  him  at  home,  as 
though  she  were  calling  him  to  her  after  long 
wanderings  in  strange  parts,  among  strangers. 
The  summer  night,  that  was  just  drawing  in, 
403 


MUMU 

was  still  and  warm  ;  on  one  side,  where  the 
sun  had  set,  the  horizon  was  still  light  and 
faintly  flushed  with  the  last  glow  of  the 
vanished  day ;  on  the  other  side  a  blue-grey 
twilight  had  already  risen  up.  The  night  was 
coming  up  from  that  quarter.  Quails  were  in 
hundreds  around ;  corncrakes  were  calling  to 
one  another  in  the  thickets.  .  .  .  Gerasim 
could  not  hear  them  ;  he  could  not  hear  the 
delicate  night-whispering  of  the  trees,  by  which 
his  strong  legs  carried  him,  but  he  smelt  the 
familiar  scent  of  the  ripening  rye,  which  was 
wafted  from  the  dark  fields  ;  he  felt  the  wind, 
flying  to  meet  him — the  wind  from  home — 
beat  caressingly  upon  his  face,  and  play  with 
his  hair  and  his  beard.  He  saw  before  him 
the  whitening  road  homewards,  straight  as  an 
arrow.  He  saw  in  the  sky  stars  innumerable, 
lighting  up  his  way,  and  stepped  out,  strong 
and  bold  as  a  lion,  so  that  when  the  rising  sun 
shed  its  moist  rosy  light  upon  the  still  fresh 
and  unwearied  traveller,  already  thirty  miles 
lay  between  him  and  Moscow. 

In  a  couple  of  days  he  was  at  home,  in  his 
little  hut,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the 
soldier's  wife  who  had  been  put  in  there. 
After  praying  before  the  holy  pictures,  he  set 
off  at  once  to  the  village  elder.  The  village 
elder  was  at  first  surprised  ;  but  the  haycutting 
404 


MUMU 

had  just  begun  ;  Gcrasim  was  a  tirst-ratc 
mower,  and  they  put  a  scythe  into  his  hand 
on  the  spot,  and  he  went  to  mow^  in  his  old 
way,  mowing  so  that  the  peasants  were  fairly 
astounded  as  they  watched  his  wide  sweeping 
strokes  and  the  heaps  he  raked  together.  .  .  . 

In  Moscow  the  day  after  Gerasim's  flight 
they  missed  him.  They  went  to  his  garret, 
rummaged  about  in  it,  and  spoke  to  Gavrila. 
He  came,  looked,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
decided  that  the  dumb  man  had  either  run 
away  or  had  drowned  himself  with  his  stupid 
dog.  They  gave  information  to  the  police,  and 
informed  the  lady.  The  old  lady  was  furious, 
burst  into  tears,  gave  orders  that  he  was  to  be 
found  whatever  happened,  declared  she  had 
never  ordered  the  dog  to  be  destroyed,  and,  in 
fact,  gave  Gavrila  such  a  rating  that  he  could 
do  nothing  all  day  but  shake  his  head  and 
murmur,  'Well !'  until  Uncle  Tail  checked  him 
at  last,  sympathetically  echoing  '  We-ell ! '  At 
last  the  news  came  from  the  country  of 
Gerasim's  being  there.  The  old  lady  was 
somewhat  pacified  ;  at  first  she  issued  a  man- 
date for  him  to  be  brought  back  without  delay 
to  Moscow  ;  afterwards,  however,  she  declared 
that  such  an  ungrateful  creature  was  absolutely 
of  no  use  to  her.  Soon  after  this  she  died  her- 
self; and  her  heirs  had  no  thought  to  spare 
405 


MUMU 

for  Gerasim;  they  let  their  mother's  other 
servants  redeem  their  freedom  on  payment  of 
an  annual  rent. 

^  And  Gerasim  is  living  still,  a  lonely  man  in 
his  lonely  hut;  he  is  strong  and  healthy  as 
before,  and  does  the  work  of  four  men  as  before, 
and  as  before  is  serious  and  steady.  But  his 
neighbours  have  observed  that  ever  since  his 
return  from  Moscow  he  has  quite  given  up  the 
society  of  women  ;  he  will  not  even  look  at 
them,  and  does  not  keep  even  a  single  dog.  '  It 's 
his  good  luck,  though,'  the  peasants  reason  ; 
'that  he  can  get  on  without  female  folk;  and 
as  for  a  dog— what  need  has  he  of  a  dog? 
you  wouldn't  get  a  thief  to  go  into  his  yard 
for  any  money!'  Such  is  the  fame  of  the 
dumb  man's  Titanic  strength. 


THE  END 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


■J^^y^-A^t,,^ 


GENERAL  LIBRARY    U.C.  BERKELEY 


B0005013b^ 


i 


